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THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


BOOKS   BY  MR.   STEDMAN 

VICTORIAN  POETS.  Revised  and  Enlarged  Edition. 
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POETS  OF  AMERICA.  A  companion  volume  to  "  Vic- 
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A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY.  1837-1895.  Selec- 
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Poetry  in  the  Reign  of  Victoria.  Large  8vo,  gilt  top, 
$2.50  ;  full  gilt,  $3.00. 

AN  AMERICAN  ANTHOLOGY.  1787-1900.  Selec- 
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POEMS.  Household  Edition.  With  Portrait  and  Illustra- 
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POEMS  NOW  FIRST  COLLECTED.  I2mo,  gilt  top, 
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MATER  CORONATA.  Recited  at  the  Bicentennial  of 
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THE  NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS  OF  POETRY. 
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PROSE  AND  POETIC  WORKS.  Including  Poems, 
Victorian  Poets,  Poets  of  America,  Nature  and  Elements 
of  Poetry.  4  vols.  uniform,  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  in  box, 
#7-5°- 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


A  VICTORIAN  ANTHOLOGY 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


All  rights  reserved. 


FOURTEENTH   IMPRESSION 


The  Riverside  Prest,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  8.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


Colleg* 
Library 


To 
ELLEN   MACKAY  HUTCHINSON 


1163862 


INTRODUCTION 


WHILE  this  book  is  properly  termed  an  Anthology,  its  scope  is  limited  to  the 
yield  of  one  nation  during  a  single  reign.  Its  compiler's  office  is  not  that  of  one 
who  ranges  the  whole  field  of  English  poetry,  from  the  ballad  period  to  our  own 
time,  —  thus  having  eight  centuries  from  which  to  choose  his  songs  and  idyls,  each 
"  round  and  perfect  as  a  star."  This  has  been  variously  essayed ;  once,  at  least,  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  render  it  unlikely  that  any  new  effort,  for  years  to  come,  will 
better  the  result  attained. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  present  work  relates  to  the  poetry  of  the  English  people, 
and  of  the  English  tongue,  that  knight  peerless  among  languages,  at  this  stage  of 
their  manifold  development.  I  am  fortunate  in  being  able  to  make  use  of  such 
resources  for  the  purpose  of  gathering,  in  a  single  yet  inclusive  volume,  a  Victo- 
rian garland  fairly  entitled  to  its  name.  The  conditions  not  only  permit  but 
require  me  —  while  choosing  nothing  that  does  not  further  the  general  plan  —  to 
be  somewhat  less  rigid  and  eclectic  than  if  examining  the  full  domain  of  English 
poesy.  That  plan  is  not  to  offer  a  collection  of  absolutely  flawless  poems,  long  since 
become  classic  and  accepted  as  models  ;  but  in  fact  to  make  a  truthful  exhibit  of  the 
course  of  song  during  the  last  sixty  years,  as  shown  by  the  poets  of  Great  Britain 
in  the  best  of  their  shorter  productions. 

Otherwise,  and  as  the  title-page  implies,  this  Anthology  is  designed  to  supplement 
my  "  Victorian  Poets,"  by  choice  and  typical  examples  of  the  work  discussed  in 
that  review.  These  are  given  in  unmutilated  form,  except  that,  with  respect  to 
a  few  extended  narrative  or  dramatic  pieces,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  make  extracts 
which  are  somewhat  complete  in  themselves  ;  it  being  difficult  otherwise  to  repre- 
sent certain  names,  and  yet  desirable  that  they  shall  be  in  some  wise  represented. 

At  first  I  thought  to  follow  a  strictly  chronological  method :  that  is,  to  give 
authors  succession  in  the  order  of  their  birth-dates ;  but  had  not  gone  far  before  it 
was  plain  that  such  an  arrangement  conveyed  no  true  idea  of  the  poetic  movement 


INTRODUCTION    , 


within  the  years  involved.  It  was  disastrously  inconsistent  with  the  course  taken 
in  the  critical  survey  now  familiar  to  readers  of  various  editions  since  its  orig- 
inal issue  in  1875  and  extension  in  1887.  In  that  work  the  leading  poets,  and 
the  various  groups  and  "  schools,"  are  examined  for  the  most  part  in  the  order  of 
their  coming  into  vogue.  Some  of  the  earlier-born  published  late  in  life,  or  other 
wise  outlasted  their  juniors,  and  thus  belong  to  the  later  rather  than  the  opening 
divisions  of  the  period.  In  the  end,  I  conformed  to  the  plan  shown  in  the  ensuing 
"  Table  of  Contents."  This,  it  will  be  perceived,  is  first  set  off  into  three  divisions 
of  the  reign,  and  secondly  into  classes  of  poets,  —  which  in  each  class,  finally,  are 
quoted  in  order  of  their  seniority.  For  page-reference,  then,  the  reader  will  not 
depend  upon  the  "  Contents,"  but  turn  to  the  Indexes  of  Authors,  First  Lines, 
and  Titles,  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

It  is  an  arbitrary  thing,  at  the  best,  to  classify  poets,  like  song-birds,  into  genera 
and  species  ;  nor  is  this  attempted  at  all  in  my  later  division,  which  aims  to  pre- 
sent them  chronologically.  Time  itself,  however,  is  a  pretty  logical  curator,  and  at 
least  decides  the  associations  wherewith  we  invest  the  names  of  singers  long  gone 
by.  Those  so  individual  as  to  fall  into  no  obvious  alliance  are  called  "  distinctive," 
in  the  first  and  middle  divisions  at  large.  Song  and  hymn  makers,  dramatists, 
meditative  poets,  etc.,  are  easily  differentiated,  and  the  formation  of  other  groups 
corresponds  with  that  outlined  in  "  Victorian  Poets."  Upon  the  method  thus 
adopted,  and  with  friendly  allowance  for  the  personal  equation,  it  seems  to  me 
that  a  conspectus  of  the  last  sixty  years  can  be  satisfactorily  obtained.  The  shorter 
pieces  named  in  my  critical  essays,  as  having  distinction,  are  usually  given  here. 
While  representing  the  poetic  leaders  most  fully,  I  have  not  overlooked  choice 
estrays,  and  I  have  been  regardful  of  the  minor  yet  significant  drifts  by  which 
the  tendencies  of  any  literary  or  artistic  generation  frequently  are  discerned.  In 
trying  to  select  the  best  and  most  characteristic  pieces,  one  sometimes  finds,  by 
a  paradox,  that  an  author  when  most  characteristic  is  not  always  at  his  best.  On 
the  whole,  and  nearly  always  with  respect  to  the  elder  poets  whose  work  has  under- 
gone long  sifting,  poems  well  known  and  favored  deserve  their  repute ;  and  pref- 
erence has  not  been  given,  merely  for  the  sake  of  novelty,  to  inferior  productions. 
Authors  who  were  closely  held  to  task  in  the  critical  volume  are  represented,  in  the 
Anthology,  by  their  work  least  open  to  criticism.  Finally,  I  believe  that  all  those 
discussed  in  the  former  book,  whether  as  objects  of  extended  review  or  as  minor 
contemporaries,  are  represented  here,  except  a  few  that  have  failed  to  justify  their 
promise  or  have  produced  little  suited  to  such  a  collection.  In  addition,  a  showing 


INTRODUCTION  xi 


is  made  of  various  poets  hopefully  come  to  light  since  the  extension  of  my  survey, 
in  1887.  Others  of  equal  merit,  doubtless,  are  omitted,  but  with  youth  on  their 
side  they  may  well  await  the  recognition  of  future  editors. 

This  Introduction  goes  beyond  the  scope  of  the  usual  Preface,  in  order  that  those 
who  (as  students  of  English  poetry)  avail  themselves  of  the  Anthology,  and  who 
have  but  a  limited  knowledge  of  the  modern  field,  may  readily  understand  the  gen- 
eral and  secondary  divisions.  To  such  readers  a  word  concerning  the  period  may 
be  of  interest. 

In  a  letter  to  the  editor,  Canon  Dixon  speaks  of  "  the  Victorian  Period  "  as  "  one 
of  the  longest  in  literary  history ;  perhaps  the  longest."  With  regard  to  an  indi- 
vidual, or  to  a  reign,  length  of  years  is  itself  an  aid  to  distinction,  through  its  pro- 
longation of  a  specific  tendency  or  motive.  The  reign  now  closing  has  been  one  in 
which  a  kingdom  has  become  an  empire ;  its  power  has  broadened  and  its  wealth 
and  invention  have  increased  as  never  before.  In  science,  —  and  in  -  works  of 
the  imagination,  despite  the  realistic  stress  of  journalism,  —  twenty  years  of  the 
recent  era  outvie  any  fifty  between  the  Protectorate  and  the  beginning  of  our 
century.  During  every  temporary  lull  we  fear  sterility,  but  one  need  not  confine 
his  retrospection  to  the  blank  from  1700  to  1795  to  be  assured  that  an  all-round 
comparison  with  the  past  must  be  in  our  favor.  While,  then,  it  is  but  a  hazardous 
thing  to  estimate  one's  own  day,  the  essays  to  which  the  Anthology  is  a  complement 
would  not  have  been  written  but  for  a  conviction  that  the  time  under  review  was 
destined  to  rank  with  the  foremost  times  of  England's  intellectual  activity, —  to  be 
classed,  it  well  might  be,  among  the  few  culminating  eras  of  European  thought  and 
art,  as  one  to  which  even  the  title  of  "  Age  "  should  be  applied.  We  speak  of 
Queen  Anne's  time ;  of  the  Georgian  Period,  and  we  have  epochs  within  periods ; 
but  we  say  the  Age  of  Pericles,  the  Augustan  Age,  the  Elizabethan  Age,  and  it  is 
not  beyond  conjecture  that  posterity  may  award  the  master  epithet  to  the  time  of 
Carlyle  and  Froude,  of  Mill  and  Spencer  and  Darwin,  of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  and 
their  successors,  of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  —  and  thus  not  only  for  its  wonders 
of  power,  science,  invention,  but  for  an  imaginative  fertility  unequalled  since  "  the 
spacious  days  "  of  the  Virgin  Queen.  The  years  of  her  modern  successor,  whose 
larger  sway  betokens  such  an  evolution,  have  been  so  prolonged,  and  so  beneficent 
under  the  continuous  wisdom  of  her  statesmen,  that  the  present  reign  may  find  no 
historic  equal  in  centuries  to  come.  An  instinctive  recognition  of  this  seems  now  to 
prevail.  Even  the  adjective  "  Victorian  "  was  unfamiliar,  if  it  had  been  employed 
at  all,  when  I  used  it  in  the  title  of  a  magazine  essay  (the  germ  of  my  subsequent 


xii  INTRODUCTION 


volume)  published  in  January,  1873.  It  is  now  as  well  in  use  as  "  Elizabethan  "  or 
"  Georgian,"  and  advisedly,  for  the  cycle  bearing  the  name  has  so  rounded  upon  it- 
self that  an  estimate  of  its  characteristic  portion  can  be  made  ab  extra ;  all  the 
more,  because  in  these  latter  days  "  the  thoughts  of  men  "  are  not  only  "  widened," 
but  hastened  toward  just  conclusions,  as  if  in  geometrical  progression.  What,  then, 
my  early  essays  found  an  ample  ground  for  study,  the  present  compilation  seeks  to 
illustrate,  and  I  trust  that,  although  restricted  to  brief  exemplifications,  it  will  some- 
what justify  this  preliminary  claim. 

In  the  following  pages,  then,  the  period  is  divided  into,  first,  the  early  years  of 
the  reign  ;  second,  the  Victorian  epoch  proper  ;  third,  the  present  time.  A  survey  of 
the  opening  division  brings  out  an  interesting  fact.  Of  the  poets  cited  as  prominent 
after  1835  and  until  the  death  of  Wordsworth,  scarcely  one  shows  any  trace  of  the 
artistic  and  speculative  qualities  which  are  essentially  Victorian.  Well-informed 
readers  may  be  surprised  to  find  so  many  antedating  the  influence  of  Tennyson, 
untouched  by  his  captivating  and  for  a  long  time  dominating  style.  Their  work  is 
that  of  a  transition  era,  holding  over  into  the  present  reign.  It  was  noted  for  its 
songs  and  sentiment.  The  feeling  of  Wordsworth  is  plain  in  its  meditative  verse  ;  yet 
to  this  time  belong  Bulwer,  Macaulay,  the  "  Blackwood  "  and  "  Bentley  "  coteries, 
"Barry  Cornwall,"  and  those  "strayed  Elizabethans,"  Darley  and  Beddoes.  Mil- 
man,  Talfourd,  Knowles,  and  others  are  not  quoted,  partly  on  account  of  their  lack  of 
quality,  but  chiefly  because  at  their  best  they  are  late  Georgian  rather  than  early 
Victorian.  Praed  comes  in  as  the  pioneer  of  our  society-verse  ;  Elliott  as  a  bard  of 
"  the  new  day."  In  fact,  the  Reform  Bill  crisis  evoked  the  humanitarian  spirit, 
poetically  at  its  height  in  the  writings  of  Hood  and  Mrs.  Browning.  To  include 
Wordsworth,  the  Queen's  first  laureate  of  her  own  appointment,  farther  than  by  a 
prelude  on  "  the  passing  of  the  elder  bards  "  would  be  to  rob  the  Georgian  Period  of 
the  leader  of  one  of  its  great  poetic  movements ;  yet  Wordsworth  breathes  through- 
out our  entire  selection,  wherever  Nature  is  concerned,  or  philosophic  thought,  and 
not  only  in  the  contemplative  verse,  but  in  the  composite,  and  never  more  strenu- 
ously than  in  Palgrave  and  Arnold,  of  the  middle  division,  and  such  a  poet  as  Wat- 
son, of  the  third.  Landor,  though  the  comrade  of  Southey,  the  foil  of  Byron,  and 
the  delight  of  Shelley,  begins  this  volume,  as  he  began  its  predecessor ;  for  Landor 
with  his  finish,  his  classical  serenity,  and  his  wonderful  retention  of  the  artistic  fac- 
ulty until  his  death  —  a  score  of  years  after  the  Accession  —  belonged  to  no  era 
more  than  to  our  own,  —  and  we  may  almost  say  that  in  poetry  he  and  Swinburne 
were  of  the  same  generation. 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 


Two  thirds  of  our  space  are  naturally  required  for  selections  from  the  typical 
division.  This  is  seen  to  begin  with  the  appointment  of  Tennyson  as  laureate,  since 
he  scarcely  had  a  following  until  about  that  date.  In  him  we  find,  on  the  reflective 
side,  a  sense  of  Nature  akin  to  Wordsworth's,  and  on  the  aesthetic,  an  artistic  per- 
fection foretokened  by  Keats,  —  in  other  words,  insight  and  taste  united  through 
his  genius  had  their  outcome  in  the  composite  idyllic  school,  supremely  represen- 
tative  of  the  Victorian  prime.  Tennyson  idealized  the  full  advance  of  nineteenth 
century  speculation,  ethical  and  scientific,  in  the  production  of  "  In  Memoriam," 
and  to  the  end  in  such  a  poem  as  "  Vastness."  Possibly,  also,  it  was  out  of  his  early 
mediaeval  romanticism  that  the  next  most  striking  school  arose  with  Rossetti  and  his 
fellow  Pre-Raphaelites  who  are  grouped  as  Poets  of  the  Renaissance :  their  revival  in- 
cluding both  Greek  and  Gothic  modes  and  motives,  as  finally  combined  in  the  mas- 
terwork  of  Swinburne.  The  third  and  equal  force  of  the  epoch  is  that  of  Browning, 
long  holding  his  rugged  ground  alone,  as  afterward  with  half  the  world  to  stay  him  ; 
but,  like  other  men  of  unique  genius,  not  the  founder  of  a  school,  —  his  manner  fail- 
ing in  weaker  hands.  In  Arnold's  composite  verse  the  reflective  prevails  over  the  aes- 
thetic. Besides  these  chiefs  of  the  quarter-century  are  various  "  distinctive  "  poets, 
as  in  the  earlier  division,  each  belonging  to  no  general  group.  Then  we  have  the 
songsters,  for  whom  all  of  us  confess  a  kindly  feeling  ;  the  balladists  withal,  and  the 
dramatists,  —  such  as  they  are  ;  also  the  makers  of  lighter  verse,  and  other  lyrists 
of  a  modest  station,  often  yielding  something  that  lends  a  special  grace  to  an 
Anthology. 

The  closing  era  is  of  the  recent  poets  of  Great  Britain,  and  begins  very  clearly 
about  twenty  years  ago.  At  that  date,  the  direct  influences  of  Tennyson,  Brown- 
ing, Swinburne,  and  Rossetti  began  to  appear  less  obviously,  or  were  blended,  where 
apparent,  in  the  verse  of  a  younger  generation.  The  new  lyrists  had  motives  of 
their  own,  and  here  and  there  a  new  note.  There  was  a  lighter  touch,  a  daintiness 
of  wit  and  esprit,  a  revival  of  early  minstrel  "  forms,"  and  every  token  of  a 
blithe  and  courtly  Ecole  Interme"diaire  :  evidence,  at  least,  of  emancipation  from 
the  stress  of  the  long  dominant  Victorian  chord.  The  change  has  become  decisive 
since  the  "  Jubilee  Year,"  to  which  my  supplementary  review  was  extended,  and 
of  late  we  have  a  distinctly  lyrical,  though  minor  song-burst,  even  if  the  mother 
country  be  not,  as  in  its  springtime  of  pleasant  minstrelsy,  "  a  nest  of  singing-birds." 
In  the  later  ditties  England's  hawthorn-edged  lanes  and  meadows  come  to  mind, 
the  skylark  carols,  and  we  have  verse  as  pastoral  as  Mr.  Abbey's  drawings  for 
Herrick  and  Goldsmith.  This,  to  my  view,  if  not  very  great,  is  more  genuine  and 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 


hopeful  than  any  further  iteration  of  "  French  Forms,"  and  the  same  may  be  occa 
sionally  said  for  those  town-lyrics  which  strive  to  express  certain  garish,  wandering 
phases  of  the  London  of  to-day.  Irish  verse,  which  always  has  had  quality,  begins 
to  take  on  art.  But  the  strongest  recent  work  is  found  in  the  ballads  of  a  few  men 
and  women,  and  of  these  balladists,  one  born  out  of  Great  Britain  is  first  without  a 
seeming  effort.  As  for  the  drama  (considering  the  whole  reign),  its  significant 
poetry,  beyond  a  few  structures  modelled  after  the  antique,  and  those  of  Home,  Tay- 
lor, and  Swinburne,  is  found  mainly  in  the  peculiar  and  masterful  work  of  Browning ; 
nevertheless,  lyrical  song  indicates  a  dramatic  inspiration,  because  it  is  so  human, 
and  if  the  novel  did  not  afford  a  continuous  exercise  of  the  dramatic  gift,  I  would 
look  to  see  the  drama,  or  verse  with  pronounced  dramatic  qualities,  attend  the  rise 
of  the  next  poetic  school.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  there  is  to  ensue  a  non-imagina- 
tive era,  a  fallow  interval,  it  will  be  neither  strange  nor  much  to  be  deplored  after 
the  productive  affluence  of  the  reign  now  ending  with  the  century. 

A  selection  from  the  minstrelsy  of  Great  Britain's  colonies  fills  out  the  scheme 
of  the  Anthology.  The  Australian  yield  is  sufficiently  meagre,  but  I  have  chosen 
what  seems  most  local  and  characteristic.  Canada  is  well  in  the  lists  with  a  group 
of  lyrists  whose  merit  has  made  their  names  familiar  to  readers  of  our  own 
periodicals,  and  who  feel  and  healthfully  express  the  sentiment,  the  atmosphere,  of 
their  northern  land.  I  am  sure  that  the  space  reserved  for  them  in  this  volume 
will  not  seem  ill-bestowed.  One  noteworthy  trait  of  colonial  poetry  is  the  frequency 
with  which  it  takes  the  ballad  form.  In  a  rude  way  this  is  seen  in  the  literature 
of  our  own  colonial  period,  and  along  our  more  recent  frontier  settlements.  By 
some  law  akin  to  that  which  makes  balladry  —  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth  — 
the  natural  song  of  primitive  man,  of  the  epic  youth  of  a  race  or  nation,  so  its  form 
and  spirit  appear  to  characterize  the  verse  of  a  people  not  primitive,  though  the 
colonial  pioneers  of  life  and  literature  in  a  new  land. 

To  a  few  exquisite  but  unnamed  quatrains  and  lyrics  by  Landor,  I  have  pre- 
fixed the  felicitous  titles  given  to  them  by  Mr.  Atdrich  in  the  little  book  "  Cameos," 
of  which  he  and  I  were  the  editors  a  score  of  years  ago.  From  the  early  min- 
strels a  compiler's  selections  are  not  hard  to  make.  The  panel  already  has  been 
struck  by  time  itself,  which  declares  that,  even  in  the  case  of  some  uneven  roisterer, 
one  or  two  fortunate  catches  shall  preserve  his  name.  More  embarrassment  comes 
from  the  knowledge  that  lovers  of  such  poets  as  Tennyson,  who  made  no  imperfect 
poem,  and  Browning,  who  wrote  none  that  was  meaningless,  are  slow  to  understand 
why  certain  pieces,  for  which  an  editor,  doubtless,  shares  their  own  regard,  are 


INTRODUCTION  xv 


perforce  omitted.  To  surmise,  moreover,  which  is  the  one  lasting  note  of  a  new  voice 
or  which  of  all  the  younger  band  is  to  win  renown,  this  is  the  labor  and  the  work, 
seeing  that  as  to  finish  they  are  all  sensitive  enough,  except  now  and  then  one  who 
invites  attention  by  contempt  for  it.  Nothing  is  more  evident  than  the  good  crafts- 
manship of  latter-day  English  and  American  vej'se-makers,  —  a  matter  of  course, 
after  the  object-lessons  given  by  their  immediate  forbears.  All  in  all,  the  antholo= 
gist  must  rest  his  cause  upon  its  good  intention.  In  speaking  of  those  who  hunt 
up  and  reprint  the  faulty  work  of  authors,  —  "the  imperfect  thing  or  thought" 
which  in  mature  years  they  have  tried  to  suppress,  —  Palgrave  justly  says  in  his 
«  Pro  Mortuis,"  — 

"  Nor  has  the  dead  worse  foe  than  he 

Who  rakes  these  sweepings  of  the  artist's  room, 

And  piles  them  on  his  tomb." 

Conversely,  one  perhaps  earns  some  right  to  count  himself  the  artist's  friend, 
whose  endeavor  is  to  discover  and  preserve,  from  the  once  cherished  treasures  of 
even  a  humble  fellow  of  the  craft,  at  least  "  one  gem  of  song,  defying  age." 

Compact  Biographical  Notes,  upon  all  the  poets  represented,  follow  the  main 
text.  Where  authorities  conflict,  and  usually,  also,  in  the  cases  of  recent  authors, 
effort  has  been  made  to  secure  the  desired  information  at  first  hand.  For  this, 
and  for  the  general  result,  my  hearty  thanks  are  due  to  the  skill  and  patience  of 
Miss  Vernetta  E.  Colemam  who  has  prepared  the  greater  portion  of  the  Notes. 
The  faithfulness  of  the  text  at  large  has  been  enhanced  by  the  cooperation  of  the 
Riverside  Press,  and  this  is  not  the  first  time  when  I  have  been  grateful  to  its 
Corrector  and  his  assistants  for  really  critical  attention  given  to  a  work  passing 
through  their  hands. 

E.  C.  S. 

NEW  YOBK,  September,  1895. 


NOTE 

FOR  the  text  of  the  selections  in  this  Anthology,  transcripts  have  been  made,  as  far  as  possible, 
from  the  books  of  the  respective  authors,  many  of  which  volumes  are  upon  the  editor's  shelves. 
Much  dependence,  however,  has  been  placed  on  the  Astor,  Mercantile,  Columbia  College,  and  Soci- 
ety Libraries,  and  the  Library  of  the  Y.  W.  C.  Association.  To  the  librarians  of  these  institutions 
the  editor's  acknowledgments  are  rendered  for  courteous  assistance.  His  thanks  are  due,  also,  to 
Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddard,  Mr.  R.  W.  Gilder,  Prof.  Brander  Matthews,  and  Prof.  F.  D.  Sherman,  of 
New  York,  Mr.  Harrison  S.  Morris,  of  Philadelphia,  Mr.  G.  H.  Ellwanger,  of  Rochester,  and  Prof. 
C.  G.  D.  Roberts,  late  of  Windsor,  N.  S.,  for  giving  him  the  use  of  their  collections,  and  to  a  few 
other  friends  for  various  services.  With  respect  to  attractive  single  poems,  and  to  authors  whose 
original  editions  could  not  be  obtained,  he  has  found  the  eight  volumes  of  Mr.  Miles's  "The 
Poets  and  the  Poetry  of  the  Century  "  welcome  aids  to  his  research.  Use  also  has  been  made  of 
Mr.  Sharp's  "Canterbury  Poets"  series, Prof.  Sladen's  "  Australian  Poets,"  Mr.  Schuyler-Light- 
hall's  "  Songs  of  the  Great  Dominion,"  and  of  several  minor  collections  of  Scottish,  Irish,  and 
English-dialect  verse. 

His  thanks  are  rendered  to  many  living  British  poets,  who  now,  under  the  amended  copyright 
law,  are  so  closely  affiliated  with  us,  for  the  privilege  cheerfully  given  of  taking  his  own  selections 
from  their  works.  This  usufruct  has  been  generously  confirmed  by  the  publishers  issuing  their 
American  editions.  The  editor  desires  to  express  his  grateful  obligations  to  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  &  Co.  and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.,  of  London  and  New  York ;  to  Messrs.  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  and  the  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company,  of  New  York ;  to  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers  and  Messrs.  Copeland  &  Day,  of 
Boston ;  and  to  Messrs.  Stone  &  Kimball  and  Messrs.  Way  &  Williams,  of  Chicago. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


I.  EARLY  YEARS  OF  THE  REIGN 

(TRANSITION  PERIOD) 
DISTINCTIVE    POETS    AND    DRAMATISTS 

gtabage  ianUor 

i 

OVERTURE  —  FROM  "THRASYMEDES  AND 

EUNOE" 

THE  HAMADRYAD 

THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA   . 

FROM  "MYRTIS" 

LITTLE  AGLAE 8 

To  A  CYCLAMEN 

DIRGE    

AN  INVOCATION 

FROM  "GEBIR" 

To  YOUTH         

To  AGE 

ROSE  AYLMER 

ROSE  AYLMER'S  HAIR,   GIVEN  BY   HER 

SISTER 

CHILD  OF  A  DAY 

FIESOLAN  IDYL 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY      .... 
THE  MAID'S  LAMENT         .... 

MARGARET        

ON  Music «    . 

PLAYS        

THERE   FALLS   WITH    EVERY   WEDDING 

CHIME 

SHAKESPEARE  AND  MILTON    . 

MACAULAY 

ROBERT  BROWNING         .... 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OssoLi  AND  HIS 

WIFE  MARGARET  FULLER 

To  IANTHE        

IANTHE'S  TROUBLES 

THE  APPEAL 

THE  TEST 

IN  AFTER  TIME       . 

A  PROPHECY        

COWSLIPS  .  

WRINKLES 

ADVICE 

How  TO  READ  ME 


PAGE 

IGB 

TIME  TO  BE  WISE    .... 

15 

THE  ONE  WHITE  HAIR 

.    15 

3 

ON  HIMSELF     

15 

3 

ON  LUCRETIA  BORGIA'S  HAIR  . 

.    15 

7 

15 

1 

7 

MAN      

.    16 

g 

16 

8 

ON  LIVING  TOO  LONG 

.    16 

3 

16 

u 

.    16 

o 

8 

VERSES  WHY  BURNT 

16 

9 

DEATH  UNDREADED    . 

.    16 

10 

MEMORY    

16 

10 

FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE  . 

.    16 

10 
10 

<8tQr$t  SDarlep 

10 

THE  FLOWER  OF  BEAUTY 

.    17 

11 

SUMMER  WINDS        .... 

17 

11 

SONGS   FROM  "SYLVIA;    OR,  THE 

MAY 

12 

QUEEN  " 

12 

1.  Chorus  of  Spirits    . 

17 

12 

2.  Morning-Song     . 

.    17 

3.  Nephon's  Song 

18 

12 

4.  Romanzo  to  Sylvia    . 

.    18 

12 

12 
13 

iSrpan  SlSRaller  procte 

r 

("  BARRY  CORNWALL  "  ) 

13 

THE  SEA       

.    19 

13 

THE  HUNTER'S  SONG 

19 

13 

THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  His  WIFE 

.    20 

13 

THE  STORMY  PETREL     . 

20 

13 

PEACE!  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL? 

.    20 

14 

20 

14 

.    21 

14 

SIT  DOWN,  SAD  SOUL 

21 

14 

GOLDEN-TRESSED  ADELAIDE     . 

.    21 

14 

A  POET'S  THOUGHT 

22 

14 

.    22 

xvin 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


SMclls 

FROM  "JOSEPH  AND  His  BRETHREN" 

§>tr  |)cnrp  Caplor 

FROM  "PHILIP  VAN  ARTEVELDE". 

FROM  "EDWIN  THE  FAIR"   . 

A  CHARACTERIZATION  —  LINES  ON   TI 

HON.  EDWARD  VILLIERS 
ARE-TINA'S  SONG      ..... 
THE  HERO   ...... 

lorU  JHacattlap 

(THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY) 

THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY  . 

EPITAPH  ON  A  JACOBITE 

IVRY      ....... 


FROM  "ORION:  AN  EPIC  POEM" 

GENIUS 

PELTERS  OF  PYRAMIDS 

SOLITUDE  AND  THE  LILY 

THE  SLAVE 

THE  PLOUGH    ,  . 


(Tbomac  Lourll 

FROM  "TORRISMOND" 
DREAM-PEDLARY     .       . 


27 
29 

2<J 


88 
88 
86 
86 
36 


87 
87 


BALLAD  OF  HUMAN  LIFE  .       .. 
SONGS  FROM  "  DEATH'S  JEST-BOOK  " 

1.  To  Sea,  to  Sea!      .... 

2.  Dirge 

3.  Athulf  's  Death  Song      ... 

4.  Second  Dirge     .... 
SONGS  FROM  "THE  BRIDES'  TRAGEDY 

1.  Hesperus  sings        .... 

2.  Love  goes  a-hawking         .        . 


Kobert 


It)atokeT 


38 

38 
38 
38 
39 

39 
39 


40 
40 
40 
40 
41 
41 


r,  JLorB  Iptton 

(EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER) 

THE   CARDINAL'S  SOLILOQUY  —  FROM 

"RICHELIEU" 42 

WHEN  STARS  ARE  IN  THE  QUIET  SKIES       43 

(TiFltlliam  ClmonUetotmr  SLptotm 

THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE        .        .    44 
MASSACRE  OF  THE  MACPHERSON  .  46 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  MEN 
MAWGAN  OF  MELHUACH    .        .        . 
FEATHERSTONE'S  DOOM  .        . 
"PATER  VESTER  PASCIT  ILLA"       . 
THE  SILENT  TOWER  OF  BOTTREAU 
To  ALFRED  TENNYSON      .       .        . 


POETS   OF  QUALITY 


(Thomas  iotoe  Peacock 

THE  MEN  OF  GOTHAM       .       .       .  .47 

THE  WAR-SONG  OF  DINAS  VAWR  .       47 

MARGARET  LOVE  PEACOCK       .       .  .47 


©SSintfjrop  jflacktoort&  f)raeB 


THE  VICAR  f 

THE  NEWLY-WEDDED 


C&atlcs 

THEOCRITUS 


48 
49 


49 


THE  ROISTERERS 


HicbarU  I)arric 


("THOMAS  INOOLDSBT") 

THE  JACKDAW  OF  RHEIMS 
MR.    BARNEY  MAGUIRE'S  ACCOUNT   OF 
THE  CORONATION 


THE  IRISHMAN  AND  THE  LADY 
THE  SOLDIER-BOY 

Jrancie 

("FATHER  PBOtrr") 
THE  SHANDON  BELLS 


54 
55 


55 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


xix 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 

Mlltam  §>iUnep  SMalfcet 

ebomas  filler 

DEATH'S  ALCHEMY         .... 

56 

THE  OLD  BABON     

64 

Battle?  CoImUffe 

Sfalw,  ioitt  panmer 

To  THE  NAUTILUS      .       . 

56 

65 

THE  BIRTH  OF  SPEECH  .... 

56 

WHITHER?   
To  SHAKESPEARE    

57 
57 

LnrU  r)Dng;l)ton 

57 

(RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES) 

57 

AN  ENVOY  TO  AN  AMERICAN  LADY 

65 

57 

THE  BROOK-SIDE    

66 

"MULTUM  DILEXIT"       .... 

58 

SUna  Jameson 

f  ranees  Stnne  Ixemble 

TAKE  ME,  MOTHER  EARTH 

58 

THE  BLACK  WALL-FLOWER     . 
FAITH        

66 
67 

C&auncp  |)are  CotonaJjenU 

|)cnrp  3UforB 

THY  JOY  IN  SORBOW      .... 

58 

67 

67 

Sfolw  f>enrp  JBetoraan 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CBOSS  .... 

58 

^of)n  ^HitforB 

ENGLAND  
REVERSES     

59 
59 

THE  ROMAN  LEGIONS        .... 

67 

THE  PILLAR  OF  THE  CLOUD 

59 

59 

.3rtbur  totnrp  F)allam 

WRITTEN  IN  EDINBURGH 

68 

J&ata  Colctilifft 

FROM  "  PHANTASMION  " 

60 

Gjftlit*Ai*    i\\  nAtitstf    M;^    33^t*^ 
sCv  UUll  I'     y^rJUllldo     TU<t    vlflV 

Charles  <IiiII)itef)caU 

AN  EPICUREAN'S  EPITAPH 
FLOWERS  I  WOULD  BRING     . 

68 
69 

As  YONDER  LAMP      

60 

HUMAN  LIFE        

69 

SORROW     

69 

3To&n  Sterling: 

LOVE'S  SPITE       
THE  QUEEN'S  VESPERS  .... 

69 
70' 

SHAKESPEARE 

61 

70 

Louis  XV     

61 

SONG  

70 

To  A  CHILD      

62 

(Lbotnas  33urintitr.c 

3Tane  SlSRelsb  Carlple 

70 

To  A  SWALLOW  BUILDING  UNDER  OUB 

IF  I  DESIBE        

71 

"E1 

ft*> 

71 

UrAVES            ....... 

EVENTIDE         

72 

L\tcl)ar5  Cbeneinr  Crenel) 

AFTEB  THE  BATTLE        .... 

63 

(LOilliam  iDenrp  (DElIjtttuortl) 

SONNET 

64 

TIME  AND  DEATH 

72 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


3folm 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 

C&arlest 


CHAMPAGNE  ROSE 


l)otottt 
THE  DEPASTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW 


78 


SHE  WORE  A  WREATH  OF  ROSES          .       73 
OH  !    WHERE   DO   FAIRIES   HIDE   THEIR 
HEADS  ?  .    73 


l)0toitt 


THE  SEA  FOWLER    . 
CORNFIELDS 


74 

74 


IL  Ijomais  Htbblc 
I  THINK  ON  THEE    . 


TRIPPING  DOWN  THE  FIELD-PATH  .  76 

TAKE  THE  WORLD  AS  IT  is  .       .       .  76 

LIFE 76 

THE  ROSE  THOU  GAV'ST        ...  77 
'TWAS    JUST    BEFORE    THE    HAY  WAS 

MOWN  ...  .77 


THE  QUIET  EYE 77 

THE  SEA-CHILD  ....  .78 


SSRtHiam  Cop  Bennett 

BABY  MAY        ......  78 

BE  MINE,  AND  I  WILL  GIVE  THY  NAME  79 

A  CHRISTMAS  SONG  79 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


laing 


MY  AIN  WIFE 


(L  liomao  CarlPlc 


THE  SOWER'S  SONG 
ADIEU    . 


Robert  (Silfillan 


"'Tis  SAIR  TO  DREAM 
THE  EXILE'S  SONG 


Jfloir 


RASA'S  DIRGE 


o.oltUtam  C(jom 
'THE  MITHERLESS  BAIRN   .       . 


80 
80 


81 


Cljomag  SltrU 

THE  SWALLOW         .... 

3Tame£!  iSallantine 

MUCKLE-MOU'D  MEG  . 

3Ta!m  Stuart  Placate 

MY  BATH          ..... 
THE  EMIGRANT  LASSIE 
THE  WORKING  MAN'S  SONG 


®5EiIIiam 

WILLIE  WINKIE 


TELL  ME,  YE  WINGED  WINDS 
EARL  NORMAN  AND  JOHN  TRUMAN 
WHAT  MIGHT  BE  DONE    . 


83 


83 


84 
85 
86 


87 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 
INCLUDING  THE  POETS  OF  YOUNG  IRELAND 
Samuel  Lober 


RORY  O'MoRE;   OR,  GOOD  OMENS 
WIDOW  MACHREE    . 


89 


SOGGARTH  AROON       ...  .90 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


0eraIU  (£5rtffin 

Sir  Cbarleg  (Sauan  SDttffp 

A  PLACE  IN  THY  MEMORY     . 
NOCTURNE    

90 
.    91 

THE  IRISH  RAPPAREES  .... 

100 

3Tames  Clarence  JHanpn 

DARK  ROSALEEN      
SOUL  AND  COUNTRY    .... 

|)elen  Selina,  iaip  'Duffertn 

91 
.    92 

SDentg  Jlorence  ^tacCartljp 

BLESS  THE  DEAR  OLD  VERDANT  LAND 
THE  IRISH  WOLF-HOUND 

•ftartbolometo  SDotolinj 

THE  REVEL         

100 
101 

101 

LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT 

93 

fo&n  fcella  %  npam 

Caroline  Clua&rtl)  §arnb  Norton 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD 

102 

(LADY  STIRLING-MAXWELL) 

WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER 
THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE   . 
LOVE  Nor     

.    93 
94 
.    94 

C&oraag  £)'arcp  JHc(0ee 

THE  CELTIC  CROSS     
THE  IRISH  WIFE     
THE  EXILE'S  DEVOTION     .... 

103 
103 
104 

2ToIjn  jFrancie  SlSEaller 

KITTY  NEIL      
A  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG 

95 
.    95 

3Tane  JFranceeca  Speran^a,  iaap 
5[5Etlue 

("  SPBKANZA") 

Sir  Samuel  Jerffttson 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  POOR 

104 

THE  FAIRY  THORN         .... 

96 

^Harp  Ctia  Eellp 

tL&omne  ©efcorne  £)aiHS 

TlPPERARY    .          

105 

THE  SACK  OF  BALTIMORE 
THE  BOATMAN  OF  KINSALE  . 
THE  WELCOME    

.    97 
98 
.    99 

©lien  Jlarp  Patrick  SDotonins; 

WERE  I  BUT  HIS  OWN  WIFE    . 

106 

"THE 

OATEN   FLUTE" 

QMtlltam  Barnes 

Cututn  (Lvtlanjb 

(DORSET) 

(LANCASHIRE) 

WOONE  SMILE  MWORE    .... 
BLACKMWORE  MAIDENS 
THE  HEARE      
THE  CASTLE  RUINS    .... 

106 
.  107 
107 

.  108 

THE  DULE  's  i'  THIS  BONNET  o'  MINE 
TH'  SWEETHEART  GATE 

OWD  PlNDER          

Samuel  iapcoctt 

109 
109 
110 

(LANCASHIRE) 
WELCOME,  BONNY  BRID! 

110 

JCX11 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


POETS  OF  THE  NEW  DAY 

(HUMANITY  — FREE  THOUGHT  —  POLITICAL,  SOCIAL,  AND  ARTISTIC  REFORM) 


(Ebcne^er  ©Iltott 

ELEGY  ON  WILLIAM  COBBETT  . 

Ill 
11? 

HYMN    

127 
1?7 

m 

NEARER  TO  THEE       

127 

o  dltlliam  3To|)n0on  fat 
THE  BARONS  BOLD         .... 

112 
113 

(SU^abetb  Barrett  33rotomnff 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN 

128 
ii(\ 

Chomae  ftooB 

THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM    . 
FLOWERS      
FAIR  INES        
THE  DEATH-BED        
BALLAD     
LEAR     

113 
115 
116 
116 
116 
117 
117 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE         . 
A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT    .... 
FROM  "  CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS  "  . 
A  COURT  LADY   
MOTHER  AND  POET         .... 
FROM  "AURORA  LEIGH"  . 
THE  SLEEP       

SUfreto  Domett 

131 
134 
134 
136 
137 
139 
142 

FROM    "Miss    KILMANSEGG    AND    HER 
PRECIOUS  LEG" 
1.  Her  Death          
2.  Her  Moral      

117 

118 

A  GLEE  FOR  WINTER        .... 
A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN       .... 
FROM  "A  CHRISTMAS  HYMN" 

143 
143 
144 

RUTH     
THE  WATER  LADY         .... 
ODE  —  AUTUMN    
THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT 
THE  LAY  OF  THE  LABORER 

119 
119 
119 
120 
121 

(LtlltlUam  33cll  Scott 

GLENKINDIE      
YOUTH  AND  AGE         

144 
145 
14fi 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS  .... 

122 

14fi 

STANZAS        

1?3 

117 

33art&olometo  Simmons 

STANZAS  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS 
HOOD      

123 

HERO-WORSHIP       

OJIltlltam  panics  Ltnton 

147 

parriet  jptartineatt 

ON,   ON,   FOREVER          

La  man  -ISlancbartJ 
NELL  GWYNNE'S  LOOKING-GLASS 

125 
125 

EVICTION      
PATIENCE  
OUR  CAUSE  
HEART  AND  WILL   
FROM  "A  THRENODY  IN  MEMORY  OF 
ALBERT  DARASZ"   

147 
147 
148 

148 

148 
149 

HIDDEN  JOYS       

126 

Too  LATE     

149 

Cfcomae  ddlaUc 

THE  NET-BRAIDERS       .       . 
BIRTH  AND  DEATH     

126 
1fl6 

WEEP  NOT  !  SIGH  NOT  !    . 
SPRING  AND  AUTUMN         .... 
LOVE'S  BLINDNESS  
THE  SILENCED  SINGER       .... 
EPICUREAN       . 

149 
149 
149 
150 
150 

<j.  bomac  Cooper 

CHARTIST  SONG       

127 

Eobert  Bicoll 

WE'LL  A'  GO  PU'  THE  HEATHER     . 

150 

TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


xxiii 


BONNIE  BESSIE  LEE        ....      150 
THE  HERO 151 

(KHatljfn  fflarks  (ISItlkd  Call 

THE  PEOPLE'S  PETITION        .       *       .      152 
SUMMER  DAYS  .  152 


153 


Charles  51 

THE  POEM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE 


jiftarp  Sinn  ©bans  (Letoes)  Cross 

("GEOROE  ELIOT") 

"O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE"   155 
SONGS  FROM  "THE  SPANISH  GYPSY" 

1.  The  Dark 155 

2.  Song  of  the  Zfncali    ....  155 


©meet  Charles  3fanes 

EARTH'S  BURDENS 


Busfctn 


156 


.  153 

.  156 

TRUST  THOU  THY  LOVE 

Yl^s 

SONG  ''OF  THE  KINGS  OF  GOLD 
THE  FACE         ..... 

.      157 

.  157 
.      158 

THE  OLD  STOIC        .        .        . 
WARNING  AND  REPLY 

153 
.  153 
154 
.  154 

THE 

^-^Whittp  3Tames  33atlep 

FROM  "  FESTUS  "         .... 

£>ora  (Sreentoell 

A  SONG  OF  FAREWELL  .... 
To  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI    . 

LIGHT        
WORLD  AND  SOUL       .... 

EAR1 
STames  JHontffometrp 

AT  HOME  IN  HEAVEN    .... 

Charlotte  Clltott 

JUST  AS  I  AM       

RHA 
.  158 

162 
.  163 

163 

.  164 

,Y    H 

168 
.  169 

PSODISTS 
BABY         

.      164 

SONG      

(SeralU  jftassep 

THE  DESERTER  FROM  THE  CAUSE 
CHRISTIE'S  PORTRAIT 
His  BANNER  OVER  ME  . 

->  SUeranfcct  i&nuth. 

FROM  "A  LIFE-DRAMA" 

.  164 

.      165 
.  165 
.      166 

.  166 
168 

To  .       ...... 

.  168 

YMNODY 

.  170 

RIDE  ON  IN  MAJESTY     . 

WHO  RUNS  MAY  READ 
SEED  TIME  HYMN  .... 
HOLY  MATRIMONY      .... 

FROM  THE  RECESSES 
WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

.      171 

.  171 
.      172 
,,172 

.      172 

.  173 

LET  ME  BE  WITH  THEE         .        .        .      169 

3ames  CUmeston 

PRAYER  TO  THE  TRINITY  ....  170 

|)enrp  ^art  ^Hitman 

HYMN    FOR    THE    SIXTEENTH    SUNDAY 

XXIV 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


5>enrp  francis  ipte 

&rthnr  Penrhpn  Stanlep 

ABIDE  WITH  ME      

"LO,   WE   HAVE  LEFT  ALL"       . 

THE  SECRET  PLACE        .... 

173      TEACH  us  TO  DIE       

174 

Christopher  iftetoman  ball 

180 

Samuel  ©SHilbcrfom 

MY  TIMES  ARE  IN  THY  HAND 

&nne  Bronte 

180 
181 

Christopher  u.i[torasB)orth 

GIVING  TO  Goi/        

1  7^ 

olttUtam  3fohn  ^alriu 

f)oratius  33onar 

O  LORD,  THY  WING  OUTSPREAD  . 

181 

LOST  BUT  FOUND        
THE  VO^E  FROM  GALILEE    . 
THY  ^VAY,  NOT  MINE        .... 
ABI^JE  WITH  Us       
TUE  MASTER'S  TOUCH       .... 
.  A  LITTLE  WHILE    

175 

176              Cecil  JFrances  SllejcanUer 

1  7fi 

*„„     THERE  is  A  GREEN  HILL  . 
177 

177             Clt^aiieth  Cecilia  Clephane 

182 

3Tohn  Samuel  38etolej>  Jftonsell 

THE  LOST  SHEEP     

177                 Sabine  fJarinji'-dftoutti 

CHILD'S  EVENING  HYMN   . 

182 
183 

jFre&cricfc  SSRilliam  jFaber 

THE  WILL  OF  GOD          .... 

jfrances  KiBlep  ^atjer^al 

i  <y 

179      I  GAVE  MY  LIFE  FOR  THEE 

183 

THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN    .... 

II.    THE   VICTORIAN   EPOCH 

(PERIOD  OF  TENNYSON,  ARNOLD, 

BROWNING,    ROSSETTI,   AND   SWINBURNE) 

COMPOSITE 

IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 

JreBericfc  Cennpson 

THIRTY-FIRST  OF  MAY       .... 

THE  LATTICE  AT  SUNRISE 
THE  ROOKERY     
187      ORION        
To  THE  GOSSAMER-LIGHT  .... 
189      LETTY'S  GLOBE        
HER  FIRST-BORN        

191               SUfret,  SLortf  Cennpson 

191      THE  DESERTED  HOUSE 
191      THE  LOTOS—  EATERS 

192 
192 
193 
193 
193 
193 

194 
194 
196 
197 

FROM  "NIOBE"          

Charles  Cennpson  STumer 

THE  LION'S  SKELETON       .... 
THE  VACANT  CAGE  

THE  LACHRYMATORY  

THE  BUOY-BELL 

192      ULYSSES     ....... 

THE  FOREST  GLADE   . 

192     SIR  GALAHAD 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXV 


SIB  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINE- 
VERE      ...... 

"  BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK  " 
SONGS  FROM  "  THE  PRINCESS." 

As  thro'  the  Land  .... 

Sweet  and  Low  .... 

Bugle  Song     ..... 

Tears,  Idle  Tears 

Thy  Voice  is  heard 

Ask  Me  no  more 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  DUKE 
OF  WELLINGTON     .... 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRI- 
GADE      ...... 

NORTHERN  FARMER  (Old  Style) 
THE  DAISY       ..... 

THE  FLOWER       ..... 

COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD  . 

THE  SHELL  (from  "  Maud  ") 

THE   PASSING    OF    ARTHUR    (from 

"  Idylls  of  the  King  ")  . 
RIZPAH  ....... 

FLOWER  IN  THE  CRANNIED  WALL 
SONG  IN  "  THE  FORESTERS  "    . 
VASTNESS  ...... 

THE  SILENT  VOICES  .... 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 


Carl  of 


198 
198 

199 
199 
199 
199 
200 
200 

200 

203 
204 
205 
206 
207 


208 
209 
211 
211 
211 
212 
212 


(BENJAMIN  D 'ISRAELI) 


WELLINGTON 


0  WIND  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  ! 
IN  THE   GOLDEN   MORNING  OF  THE 
WORLD 


IN  A  LECTURE-ROOM 

A  PROTEST 

QUA  CURSUM  VENTUS 

FROM  "THE  BOTHIE  OF  TOBER-NA- 
VUOLICH  " 

PESCHIERA 

FROM  "AMOURS  DE  VOYAGE" 

ITE  DOMUM  SATURJE,  VENTT  HES- 
PERUS   

AH  !  YET   CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN     . 

WHERE  LIES  THE  LAND 


Campbell 

CAILLEACH  BEIN-Y-VREICH 


213 


213 


213 


214 
214 
214 

215 
216 
217 

217 

218 
218 


219 


Jtaella  33ttte 

THE  LITTLE  FAIR  SOUL         . 

Hnbcrt  Lrtjbton 
THE  DRIED-UP  FOUNTAIN 


WRITTEN  IN  EMERSON'S  ESSAYS  . 
THE  WORLD  AND  THE  QUIETIST 
FROM  "SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM  "    . 
FROM  "BALDER  DEAD"    . 
THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 
PHILOMELA  ...... 

DOVER  BEACH 

FROM  "  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA  " 

THE  BURIED  LIFE 

MEMORIAL  VERSES  (on  Wordsworth) 

GEIST'S  GRAVE        .... 

Charles  fccnt 

POPE  AT  TWICKENHAM 


CaUitoeU 

To  LA  SANSCCEUR    .. 
THE  MASTER-CHORD  .. 
EARTH 


SSEUUam  ^afynson  Carj> 

MlMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH    . 
HERACLEITUS    ..... 
A  POOR  FRENCH  SAILOR'S  SCOTTISH 
SWEETHEART    ..... 


EPITAPH  OF  DIONYSIA 


Cobentrp  fJatmore 


219 


.  220 


230 


231 
231 
231 


231 
232 


232 


232 


FROM  "  THE  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE"  .  233 

THE  GIRL  OF  ALL  PERIODS    .        .        .  235 

FROM  "  THE  UNKNOWN  EROS  "       .  .235 

REGINA  CO^LI 236 

SSRalter  C.  f&tnitj) 

DAUGHTERS  or  PHILISTIA  (from 

"  Olrig  Grange  ") 236 

THE  SELF-EXILED 237 

frauds  Cttriwr  fjaljratoe 

THE  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  MUSES  .  239 


XXVI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PRO  MORTUIS   
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH     . 

239 
240 

jJbilip  Gilbert  I)amcrton 

A  LITTLE  CHILD'S  HYMN 

240 

THE  SANYASSI     .       . 

.  258 

A  DANISH  BARROW    

241 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN   .... 

259 

<L  l)omas  henry  hurlrp 

Eoien  JBoel 

241 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE 

.  259 

Slrtjwr  3T0cep&  iftunbp 

SEA  SLUMBER-SONG        .... 

260 
260 

DORIS:  A  PASTORAL          .       .       .       . 

242 

THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND  . 

261 

FROM  "  DOROTHY  :  A  COUNTRY  STORY  " 

261 

243 

THE  TOY  CROSS      

262 

Country  Kisses       

244 

"  THAT  THEY  ALL  MAY  BE  ONE  "  . 

.  262 

Dorothy's  Room         .... 

244 

Beauty  at  the  Plough    .... 

245 

246 

Sir  StlfrcB  JLpall 

SWEET  NATURE'S  VOICE  (from  "Susan") 

246 

f  sa  Craiff  fcnoj; 

MEDITATIONS  OF  A  HINDU  PRINCE 

262 

THE  WOODRUFFE    

247 

&lfrett  Austin 

Sir  euurin  arnoia 

AT  His  GRAVE  (Hughenden,  May,  1881) 

263 

FROM  "THE  LIGHT  OF  ASIA" 
THE  CALIPH'S  DRAUGHT 
AFTER  DEATH  IN  ARABIA 

f-> 

247 
248 
249 

SONGS  FROM  ''PRINCE  LUCIFER" 
Grave-Digger's  Song      .        .        . 
Mother-Song        
AGATHA        

.  264 
265 
265 

RAGLAN     
FROM  "  WITH  SA'DI  IN  THE  GARDEN  " 

250 

THE  HAYMAKERS'  SONG        .       .       . 

265 

Mahmud  and  Ayaz        .        .        . 

250 

Song  without  a  Sound         .        . 

250 

nri.            en  L 

THE  MUSMEE       

251 

<L  ftoinac  4fil)c 

Stopfortt  &ttgngttt£f  •ftroafce 

MARIAN        

.  266 
266 

VERSAILLES  (1784)    
THE  JUNGFRAU'S  CRY       .... 

252 
253 

BY  THE  SALPETRIERE 
A  VISION  OF  CHILDREN. 

.  266 
267 

SONGS  FROM   "  RlQUET  OF   THE  TuFT  " 

POETA  NASCITUR            .... 

.  267 

Queen's  Song      

254 

Prince  Riquet's  Song     .... 

254 

Orotiorc  ttlattEi 

2fol)n  JQicIjol 

ODE  TO  MOTHER  CAREY'S  CHICKEN     . 

267 

MARE  MEDITERRANEUM         .       .       . 

254 

THE  SONNET'S  VOICE 

.  269 

H,  W.  L  

255 

COLERIDGE        

269 

THE  BREATH  OF  AVON 

.  270 

.Francis,  (£nt'l  of  LvOdclPU 

270 

TOAST  TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

.  270 

256 

MEMORY       

256 

Sir  Lriutfi  Jflorris 

SDatoto  <J5rap 

256 

THE  DEAR  OLD  TOILING  ONE 

271 

SONG      ...                              .       . 

257 

272 

ON  A  THRUSH  SINGING  IN  AUTUMN 

257 

272 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


xxvii 


^jjoljn  .Ktititncjton  Spmonfig 

Jteicric  SUSilliara  I£)entp  ^Hpei 

"6 

AN  EPISODE         

272 

FROM  "  SAINT  PAUL  "... 

.  291 

Lux  EST  UMBRA  DEI      .... 

273 

292 

THE  NIGHTINGALE      

273 

ON  A  GRAVE  AT  GRINDELWALD 

.  292 

THE  FALL  OF  A  SOUL     .... 

274 

A  LAST  APPEAL      

292 

FAREWELL    ....... 

274 

292 

IL  FIOR  DEGLI  EROICI  FURORI     . 

274 

A  LETTER  FROM  NEWPORT   . 

292 

274 

I  SAW,   I  SAW   THE  LOVELY  CHILD  . 

.  293 

THYSELF    

275 

275 

Ctoniarlj  t^  oiutjcn 

RENUNCIANTS   

293 

SUcranUrr  l)ap  3^app 

LEONARDO'S  "  MONNA  LISA"   .       . 

.  294 

A  Music  LESSON        

276 

Two  INFINITIES       . 

294 

276 
276 

jptatjatet  Selep 

277 

FIRST  OB  LAST  ?         .... 

294 

Cosmo  fftonfebouse 

Latop  Cut-tie 

("  VIOLET  FANK  ") 

SONG    

277 
277 

278 
278 

_,        o 

295 
.  295 
296 
296 

A  DEAD  MARCH      

A  FOREBODING    

THE  SECRET     

IN  GREEN  OLD  GARDENS 

Lvotrrf  -Buchanan 

Samuel  o_iilat)itncrton 

THE  BALLAD  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT    . 

279 

THE  INN  OF  CARE  

297 

SPRING  SONG  IN  THE  CITY    . 

281 

SOUL  AND  BODY  

.  297 

THE  WAKE  OF  TIM  O'HARA    . 
Two  SONS         

282 
283 

Crncct  ^HPCTC 

ON  A  YOUNG  POETESS'S  GRAVE 

283 

GORDON     ....... 

297 

THE  SUMMER  POOL        .... 

283 

ETSI  OMNES,  EGO  NON 

.  299 

WE  ARE  CHILDREN     

284 

"THE  SEA-MAIDS'  Music"    . 

299 

WHEN  WE  ARE  ALL  ASLEEP 

284 

THE  DREAM  OF  THE  WORLD  WITHOUT 

<25eotg;e  Jtancie  Satoaffe=&rra0tni 

Hff 

DEATH  (from  "  The  Book  of  Orm  ") 
THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER 

285 
288 

AUTUMN  MEMORIES    .... 

.  299 

THE  CHURCHYARD      

289 

THE  MYSTERY  

299 

ONE  IN  THE  INFINITE 

.  300 

MY  GUIDE         

300 

©milp  fjfeiffet 

"  THE  FATHER  "         .... 

.  300 

A  SONG  OF  WINTER       .... 
To  A  MOTH  THAT   DRINKETH  OF  THE 

290 

3famc6  Chapman  (Mooti0 

RIPE  OCTOBER         ..... 

290 

THE  SOUL  STITHY    

301 

To  THE  HERALD  HONEYSUCKLE   . 

291      THE  WORLD'S  DEATH-NIGHT   . 

.  301 

BALL  ADI  STS   AND  LYRISTS 

Louisa  ^Hacartnej)  CratofotB 

Sit  jFtaiuis  ^aKtinjs  2^ople 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN  .... 

301 

302 

THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS 

302 

XXV111 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


303 
303 
304 
305 
305 
306 
306 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE      .. 
THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE  . 
THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM        .. 
SORROWS  OF  WERTHER  ... 
THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM       . 
THE  MAHOGANY  TREE  ... 
THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY    . 

C&arlee  SDicfcnus 

THE  IVY  GBEEN         .....  307 

C&arlea  fcinffglep 

FROM  "THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY".       .      308 
THE  SANDS  OF  DEE    .....  309 

THE  THREE  FISHERS      ....      309 

A  MYTH       .......  309 

THE  DEAD  CHURCH        ....      309 

ANDROMEDA  AND   THE  SEA  -NYMPHS 
(from  "  Andromeda  ")      .        .        .        .310 

THE  LAST  BUCCANEER  ....      310 

LORRAINE     .......  311 

A  FAREWELL   ......     311 


312 
312 
313 
313 


A  WOMAN'S  QUESTION 
A  DOUBTING  HEART 
THE  REQUITAL     .. 
PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM 


Jftatia  ^ftulocfe  Cratfe 


PHILIP,  MY  KING 314 

Too  LATE 314 

Carl  of 

(SIR  JAMES  CAENEGIE) 

THE  FLITCH  OF  DUNMOW  ....  315 
NOVEMBER'S  CADENCE    ....     315 

Mortimer  Collins 

A  GREEK  IDYL 315 

KATE  TEMPLE'S  SONG     ....      316 
THE  IVORY  GATE 316 

SMtlliam 

THE  FAIRIES 317 

LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY        .       .       .  317 

THE  SAILOR 318 

A  DREAM 318 

HALF-WAKING 319 

DAY  AND  NIGHT  SONGS     .       .  .  319 


<0eorg;e  SMalto 


THE  THREE  SCARS 

MELTING  OF  THE  EARL'S  PLATE 


320 
320 


THE  THREE  TROOPERS  ... 
THE  WHITE  ROSE  OVER  THE  WATER 
THE  JACOBITE  ON  TOWER  HILL  . 
THE  DEATH  OF  MARLBOROUGH 
THE  OLD  GRENADIER'S  STORY 


THE  LAIRD  OF  SCHELYNLAW    . 


THE  HIGH   TIDE  ON   THE  COAST  OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE       ..... 

SAILING  BEYOND  SEAS 
THE  LONG  WHITE  SEAM 


Eobert  SDtoper 

CROSSING  THE  BLACKWATER 


©'Icarp 

To  GOD  AND  IRELAND  TRUE 

Hamilton 

REMEMBER  OR  FORGET 
THE  DANUBE  RIVER       . 
WHEN  WE  ARE  PARTED 
THE  FORSAKEN 


321 
321 
322 
322 
322 


323 


324 
326 
327 


327 


328 


328 
328 
329 
329 


MOTHER  WEPT     . 
THE  DEWDROP 
THE  BUTTERFLY 


EicjjarB  ©arnett 

THE  ISLAND  OF  SHADOWS 
THE  FAIR  CIRCASSIAN 
THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOAT  . 
THE  LYRICAL  POEM   . 
THE  DDDACTIC  POEM 

ON  AN  URN 

AGE 

To  AMERICA       .... 


329 
329 
330 


330 
331 
331 
331 
331 
332 
332 
332 


THE  BANSHEE 332 

E.  St.  fo&n  Cprtolntt 

THE  GLORY  OF  MOTION     ....  333 

Clement  Scott 

Rus  IN  URBE 334 

LILIAN  ADELAIDE  NEILSON  .       .  334 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXIX 


§aralj  (Lilltlltams 

OMAK  AND  THE  PERSIAN     .    . 

H>tr  ©EEalter 


335 


iafcp  Lintoeap 


SONNET 

MY  HEART  is  A  LUTE 


To  DAPHNE 336 

VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


(Ll)oma0  (Portion  bake 


OLD  SOULS 
THE  SIBYL 


337 
339 


FROM  His  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  RUBAI- 
YAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 
Overture      ...... 

Paradise  Enow        ..... 

The  Master-Knot        .... 

The  Phantom  Caravan  .        .        .        . 

The  Moving  Finger  writes          .        . 
And  yet  —  And  yet!  . 

Uofcm  3Srotontng 


340 
340 
341 
341 
342 
342 


343 


SONG  FROM  "  PARACELSUS  "  .       . 
CAVALIER  TUNES 

1.  Marching  along         ....  343 

2.  Give  a  House  .....      344 

3.  Boot  and  Saddle        ....  344 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS  .....     344 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP     .       .  346 
IN  A  GONDOLA  ......     346 

SONG  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES"   .       .       .348 
"  How  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS 

FROM  GHENT  TO  Aix"        .        .        .      349 
THE  LOST  LEADER     .....  350 

YOUTH  AND  ART      .....      350 

HOME  THOUGHTS  FROM  ABROAD     .       .  351 
A  FACE      .......      351 

"DE  GUSTIBUS  —  "     .....  352 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  His  TOMB  AT 

SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH  .  .  .  352 
MEETING  AT  NIGHT  .....  354 
PARTING  AT  MORNING  ....  354 
EVELYN  HOPE  ....  .  354 

"  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 

CAME"    .......     355 

RESPECTABILITY  ......  358 

MEMORABILIA  ......      358 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE    .....  359 

ONE  WORD  MORE    .....     359 

ABT  VOGLER       ......  362 

PROSPICE  .......     363 

MISCONCEPTIONS  ......  364 


EPITAPH  (Levi  Lincoln  Thaxter) 
MUCKLE-MOUTH  MEG         . 
EPILOGUE  . 


336 
.  336 


364 

.  364 

365 


How 's  MY  BOY  ? 365 

A  NUPTIAL  EVE 366 

TOMMY  's  DEAD 367 

HOME  IN  WAR-TIME  ....  368 

AMERICA 368 

EPIGRAM  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD 

FORBES 368 

SEA  BALLAD  (from  "  Balder  ")  .  .  .368 
DANTE,  SHAKESPEARE,  MILTON  (from 

"Balder") 369 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  BROWNING  .  370' 
FRAGMENT  OF  A  SLEEP-SONG  370 


371 
371 
371 
371' 
37L 
373 
374 
374 
375, 


375 
375 


FROM  "MODERN  LOVE" 

"All  Other  Joys" 

Hiding  the  Skeleton   . 

The  Coin  of  Pity    . 

One  Twilight  Hour     . 
JUGGLING  JERRY         .       . 
THE  LARK  ASCENDING  . 
LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  SHAKESPEARE 
THE  Two  MASKS 


Ctinns 

A  DIRGE  FOR  SUMMER  . 
WHAT  THE  TRUMPETER  SAID   . 


C&rwttna  <25corg;ina  Eoasetti 

THE  UNSEEN  WORLD 

At  Home 376 

Remember 376 

After  Death 376 

Wife  to  Husband 376 

Up-Hill 377 

"!T  is  FINISHED" 377 

FROM  "  MONNA  INNOMINATA  " 

Abnegation 378 

Trust 378 


XXX 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


FLUTTERED  WINGS         .       . 
PASSING  AND  GLASSING 
THE  THREAD  OF  LIFE    . 
FROM  "LATER  LIFE" 

Sonnets  VI  and  IX        .        , 
AN  ECHO  FROM  WILLOWWOOD 
TWIST  ME  A  CROWN  . 
GOOD-BY  . 


Eobett,  ©arl  of  iptton 

("OwBN  MEREDITH") 

INDIAN  LOVE-SONG    .... 
Aux  ITALIENS  .       .       .       . 
THE  CHESS-BOARD     . 


378 
378 
379 

379 
379 
379 

380 


380 
380 
382 


TEMPORA  ACTA  (from  "  Babylonia") 
THE  DINNER-HOUR  (from  "  Lucile  ") 
THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DEAD  LAMBS 
THE  UTMOST 


382 
383 
383 
384 


(Lbomcon 


MELENCOLIA  (from  "  The  City  of  Dread- 
ful Night")    ......      385 

LIFE'S  HEBE        ......  386 

FROM  "  HE  HEARD  HER  SING  "    .       .387 

Jbarrwt  (Eleanor  Hamilton  &tnjj 

PALERMO  (from  u  The  Disciples  ")     .        .388 
THE  CROCUS     ......     389 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Jotto 


Proton 


FOR  THE   PICTURE,  "THE    LAST  OF 
ENGLAND  "    ...... 

0.  M.  B.       .       .       .       .       .       . 


Bod 


REQUIEM 
'THE  LAST  OF  THE  EURYDICE  . 


(L  bomns 

MY  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 
'  GIVEN  OVER 


Dante  Gabriel  Kneectti 

THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

THE  PORTRAIT 

/FROM  "  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE  :  A  SON- 
NET-SEQUENCE " 

Introductory 

Lovesight 

Her  Gifts 

The  Dark  Glass      .... 

Without  Her 

Broken  Music         .... 

Inclus'nneness 

A  Superscription    .... 
SONNETS  ON  PICTURES 

A  Venetian  Pastoral  .        .        .        . 

Mary  'Magdalene    .... 
SUDDEN  LIGHT  . 

THE  WOODSPURGE      .... 
THE  SEA-LIMITS 


390 
390 


390 
391 


391 
392 


392 
394 


395 
395 
395 
396 
396 
396 
396 
397 

397 
397 
397 


A  LITTLE  WHILE 

THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES     .       . 

Bic&arti  SISRatfion  £>tj:on 

ODE  ON  CONFLICTING  CLAIMS   .       . 
HUMANITY        ...... 

FROM  "  MANO  :  A  POETICAL  HISTORY  " 

The  Skylark 

Of  a  Vision  of  Hell,  which  a  Monk 
had        ...... 

Of  Temperance  in  Fortune    .        . 


SSRilltam 


THE  GILLYFLOWER  OF  GOLD        . 

SHAMEFUL  DEATH 

THE  BLUE  CLOSET 

FROM  "  THE  EARTHLY  PARADISE" 

The  Singer's  Prelude     .        .        . 

Atalanta's  Victory      ... 

Atalanta's  Defeat 

The  King's  Visit         .        .        . 

Song  :  To  Psyche 

A  Land  across  the  Sea        .        . 

Antiphony 
FROM  "  SIGURD  THE  VOLSUNG" 

Of  the  Passing  Away  of  Brynhild 

The  Burghers'  Battle    .        .        . 

A  Death  Song 


>t  Cafilcp 

(JOHN  LEICESTER  WARREN) 

A  WOODLAND  GRAVE         .. 
A  SIMPLE  MAID 


398 

39S 


399 
400 


400 


400 
401 


402 
403 
403 

404 

405 
407 
408 
409 
409 
410 

410 
413 
413 


414 
415 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXXI 


FORTUNE'S  WHEEL    . 

CIKCE 

A  SONG  OF  FAITH  FORSWORN 
THE  Two  OLD  KINGS     . 


§>totn&utne 


415 
415 
416 
417 


A  MATCH 

HESPERIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WALTER  SAVAGE  LAN- 
DOR    

LOVE  AT  SEA 

FROM  "ROSAMOND" 

FROM  "  ATALANTA  IN  CALYDON  " 
When  the  Hounds  of  Spring 
We  have  seen  Thee,  0  Love 

FROM  "CHASTELARD"    .... 

FROM  "BOTHWELL" 

SAPPHO  (from  "  On  the  Cliffs  ")      . 

HOPE  AND  FEAR         .... 

ON  THE  DEATHS  OF  THOMAS  CARLYLE 
AND  GEORGE  ELIOT  .... 

HERTHA   

ETUDE  REALISTE 

THE  ROUNDEL 431 

A  FORSAKEN  GARDEN    ....      432 

ON  THE  MONUMENT  ERECTED  TO  MAZ- 
ZINI  AT  GENOA         .  .  433 


417 
417 

419 
420 
420 

421 
422 
422 
425 
427 
428 

428 
428 
431 


CADENCES 434 

SIBYL .434 

THORGERDA 435 

LOVE'S  AUTUMN 435 

SONGS'  END      .  436 


Kobcrt 

POOR  WITHERED  ROSE 

I  WILL  NOT  LET  THEE  GO     .        . 

UPON  THE  SHORE 

A  PASSER-BY 

ELEGY  

THOU  DIDST  DELIGHT  MY  EYES      . 

AWAKE,  MY  HEART  I 
O  YOUTH  WHOSE  HOPE  is  HIGH 
So  SWEET  LOVE  SEEMED  . 
ASIAN  BIRDS    . 


437 
437 
437 
438 
438 
438 
439 
439 
439 
439 


THE  FAIR  MAID  AND  THE  SUN  .  .  440 
HAS  SUMMER  COME  WITHOUT  THE  ROSE  ?  441 

AT  HER  GRAVE 441 

SILENCES 441 

IF  SHE  BUT  KNEW      .       .       .       .       .  442 

JJbtltp  -Bourkr  f  ft  arc  ton 

A  GREETING 442 

A  VAIN  WISH 442 

LOVE'S  Music 442 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  WIND  .  .  .  443 
How  MY  SONG  OF  HER  BEGAN  .  .  444 
THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD  OF  BONCHURCH  444 

GARDEN  FAIRIES 444 

LOVE  AND  Music 445 

No  DEATH 445 

AT  THE  LAST 446 

HER  PITY 446 

AFTER  SUMMER 446 

To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY  .  .  .  447 
IF  You  WERE  HERE  ....  447 
AT  LAST  .  447 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Cora 

FROM  "  THE  FOOL'S  REVENGE  "     . 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN         .... 

fobn  SlSReetlana  JHareton 

FROM  "MARIE  DE  MERANIE" 

iSailliam  ©orman  SSaillg 

CROMWELL  AND  HENRIETTA  MARIA 
(from  "  Charles  the  First  ")  . 

QMtlliam  §>cl)toencfc  (Silficrt 

FROM  "  PYGMALION  AND  GALATEA" 


Drrman  Charles  fftcriaalc 

448 

.<ETATE  XIX    

461 

450 

461 

THAISA'S  DIRGE       

462 

452 

iclujtiBtn  (Tctlcbctcr 

SONGS  FROM  DRAMAS 

455 

News  to  the  King           . 
'Tween  Earth  and  Sky 

.  462 
462 
463 

Tell  Me  not  of  Morrows,  Sweet 
THE  DEATHS  OF  MYRON  AND  KLY- 

463 

457 

DONE  (from  "  In  a  Day  ") 

.  463 

XXX11 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


ELEGANTI^E 


Locferr^Lampson 

(FREDERICK  LOCKBB) 

To  MY  GRANDMOTHER  ... 
THE  WIDOW'S  MITE 
ON  AN  OLD  MUFF  ... 

To  MY  MISTRESS 
THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUPBOARD 

Lxobrrt  ijarnnbnc 
MY  LORD  TOMNODDY         . 


O.irlrs 

COMPANIONS 

BALLAD 

ON  THE  BRINK 


Calscrlcp 


465 

466 
466 
467 
467 


468 


469 
469 
470 


A  MARLOW  MADRIGAL 

A  PORTRAIT 

THE  LITTLE  REBEL   . 


FROM  "  THE  PARADISE  OF  BIRDS 
Birdcatcher's  Song     .        . 
Ode  —  To  the  Roc 
lu  Praise  of  Gilbert  White         . 


Jretoericfe. 

THE  Six  CARPENTERS'  CASE 


"THE  LAND  OF  WONDER-WANDER" 


Lear 

THE  JTM  HUES     ......  475 

Hante 


TOPSY-TURVY  WORLD  .       .       .476 

POLLY   ........  476 


DRESSING  THE  DOLL 
I  SAW  A  NEW  WORLD 


477 
.  477 


Cbarlcc  ittttoftge 

("  LEWIS  CAREOLL  ") 

JABBERWOCKY 478 

FROM  "THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  SNAHK"  478 

OF  ALICE  IN  WONDERLAND  .       .       .  479 


III.    CLOSE   OF  THE   ERA 

(INTERMEDIARY  PERIOD) 
RECENT  POETS  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


ftnottn  £?obson 

A.  DEAD  LETTER 

A  RONDEAU  TO  ETHEL  . 

u  WITH  PIPE  AND  FLUTE  " 

A  GAGE  D' AMOUR   .       .       . 

THE  CRADLE       . 

THE  FORGOTTEN  GRAVE 

THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS 

"  GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTE  "    . 

ON  A  FAN  . 

"ONAvis" 


483 

484 
485 
485 
486 
486 
486 
486 
487 
488 


"  0  FONS  BANDUSLE  ". 
FOR  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS 
To  A  GREEK  GIRL      .. 
ARS  VICTRIX 

THE  LADIES  OF  ST.  JAMES'S 
A  FAMILIAR  EPISTLE  .  . 
"  IN  AFTER  DAYS  "  . 


&catoen  33ltmt 

To  MANON  —  COMPARING  HER  TO  A 
FALCON  . 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


xxxin 


To    THE    SAME  —  ON    HER    LIGHT- 

€mtlj>  Henrietta  pcfcep 

"IEARTEDNESS    
DAUGHTER  AND  DEATH  .... 
GIBRALTAR  

491 
491 
492 

A  SEA  STORY    
BELOVED,  IT  is  MORN 

502 
.  503 

THE  OLD  SQUIRE     

492 

©SUltcr  Crane 

frank  C.  ^fUr^tate 

A  SEAT  FOR  THREE       .... 
ACROSS  THE  FIELDS   .... 

503 
.  503 

DEATH  AS  THE  TEACHER  OF  LOVE- 

493 
493 

(Eugene  lee=|)amilton 

DEATH  AS  THE  FOOL            .... 

TWO  SONNET-SONGS 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH   TO   A   CAGED 

1.  The  Sirens  sing       .... 

493 

LINNET  

504 

2.  Orpheus  and  the  Mariners  make 

IZAAK  WALTON  TO  RIVER  AND  BROOK 

.  504 

493 

CHARLES  II  OF  SPAIN  TO  APPROACH- 

ING DEATH    

504 

To  MY  TORTOISE  CHRONOS 

.  504 

(0eorg;e  Cotterell 

SUNKEN  GOLD          

505 

AN  AUTUMN  FLITTING   .... 

494 

SEA-SHELL  MURMURS         .        . 
A  FLIGHT  FROM  GLORY 

.  505 
505 

IN  THE  TWILIGHT       

495 

WHAT  THE  SONNET  is        ... 

.  505 

ON  HIS  "SONNETS  OF  THE  WINGLESS 

8nfcreto  Lang 

HOURS  "         

505 

BALLADES 

To  Theocritus,  in  Winter  . 

495 

SUfrefc  ^ercetoal  (S5rabes 

Of  the  Book-Huuter      .... 
Of  Blue  China     

496 
496 

THE  WHITE  BLOSSOM'S  OFF  THE  BOG 

.  506 

Of  Life 

496 

Of  his  Choice  of  a  Sepulchre     . 

497 

jFretoerifea  Ktcharlson  ^HacBona 

m 

ROMANCE      

497 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE  —  MIDNIGHT    . 

506 

THE  ODYSSEY   

497 

SAN  TERENZO      
SCYTHE  SONG    

497 
498 

<0eor<je  33arloto 

MELVILLE  AND  COGHILL    . 

498 

THE  DEAD  CHILD       .... 

.  507 

PARAPHRASES 

IF  ONLY  THOU  ART  TRUE 

507 

498 

THE  OLD  MAID   ..... 

.  507 

Telling  the  Bees             . 

498 

Heliodore  Dead          .... 
A  SCOT  TO  JEANNE  D'ARC 

498 
499 

f  refcertc  CUtoarfc  ©Sleat&erlp 

THREE  PORTRAITS  OF  PRINCE  CHARLES 

499 

LONDON  BRIDGE      

508 

ari 

508 

500 

A  BIRD  IN  THE  HAND    .... 

509 

DOUGLAS  GORDON        .... 

.  509 

SMilltam  Canton 

DARBY  AND  JOAN    

510 

500 

Catherine  C.  JLiBUell 

LAUS  INFANTIUM     

501 
501 

(C.  C.  FRASER-TCTXEB) 

JESUS  THE  CARPENTER 

.  510 

THE  POET  IN  THE  CITY  .... 

511 

3ToIm  |)artlep 

To  A  DAISY      .       .       . 

501 

Ctinutnli  (0o00c 

LYING  IN  THE  GRASS 

.  511 

&leranfier  SlnUerson 

ON  A  LUTE  FOUND  IN  A  SARCOPHAGUS 

512 

THE  PIPE-PLAYER     .... 

.  513 

CUDDLE  DOON 

502 

HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN,  1805-1875 

513 

XXXIV 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


DE  Rosis  HIBKHNJS        .... 

513 
.  514 

3To!w  artiwr  (Sooac&UD 

WITH  A  COPY  OF  HKRRICK    . 
THE  VOICE  OF  D.  G.  R.    . 

SONG  FOR  MUSIC         

ti.  brop&ilr  iflantalc 

514 
.  514 
514 

.  515 

SCHONE   ROTHRAUT       .... 

A  PARABLE  OF  THE  SPIRIT 

(Kric  jftacfeap 

THE  WAKING  OF  THE  LARK 
MARY  ARDEN  . 

.  527 
528 

.  529 
530 

TWICKENHAM  FERRY      .... 

515 

ECSTASY        

532 

MAY  MARGARET          .... 

.  516 
516 

.  516 

JF.  (SSSptoille  pome 

©SEalter  ^crriee  Bollock 

BELOW  THE  HEIGHTS     .... 

516 

.  517 

AN  ENGLISH  GIRL      .... 
DOVER  CLIFF   ...... 
IN  A  SEPTEMBER  NIGHT   . 

^Tranrtrt    ftlffatHtam   43ftitr7nIInn 

.  532 
532 
.  532 

FATHER  FRANCIS     

ifflu&ael  f  icIB 

FROM  "  CANUTE  THE  GREAT  "  . 
THE  BURIAL  OF  ROBERT  BROWNING  . 
WIND  OF  SUMMER      .... 
THE  DANCERS         
LETTICE        

517 

.  517 
519 
.  520 
520 
.  520 

EURYDICE  
A  VIOLINIST        
OLD  AND  YOUNG     
THE  NIGHT  HAS  A  THOUSAND  EYES 

Herbert  (Eitoin  Clarfee 

IN  THE  WOOD     
A  CRY       

533 
.  533 
533 
.  533 

533 
534 

EARTH  TO  EARTH    
AN  -AEOLIAN  HARP     .... 

521 
.  521 
521 

TEE  AGE     

,  534 

Jftatfjltte  Mntt 

FROM  "  A  LOVE-TRILOGY  " 
THE  DEAD        
FROM  "LOVE  IN  EXILE" 

Kobert  Louts  Urtetoenson 

PIRATE  STORY         

.  522 
522 
.  522 

523 
.  523 

LaUp  Charlotte  (Elliot 

THE  WIFE  OF  LOKI       .... 

SSHtlliam  farces  SDatoson 

A  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT  .... 
BIRD'S  SONG  AT  MORNING     . 
IDEAL  MEMORY    
To  A  DESOLATE  FRIEND 
THE  ANGEL  AT  THE  FORD 

535 

.  535 
535 
.  63(5 
536 
.  537 

THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 
THE  LAND  OF  NOD     .... 
IN  THE  SEASON        
To  N.  V.  DE  G.  S  
IN  THE  STATES         
THE  SPAEWIFE    
HEATHER  ALE  :  A  GALLOWAY  LEGEND 

523 
.  524 
524 
.  524 
524 
.  525 
525 

jfrancee  ^faabel  Darnell 

AFTER  DEATH         .       .       .       . 

&lice  Jflepnell 

THE  MODERN  POET    .... 

537 

.  638 
538 

THE  WHAUPS  —  To  S.  R.  C.     . 
REQUIEM   

<0leeeon  (SSRIrite 

A  BALLADE  OF  PLAYING  CARDS 

.  526 
526 

.  526 
527 

CHANGELESS         
RENOUNCEMENT       
SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  AT  DAYBREAK 

IDaiunfoam  Ueattp 

CHARLES  LAMB               .       .       .       . 

.  538 
539 
.  539 

539 

A  PRIMROSE  DAME 

.  527 

THE  DEATH  OF  HAMPDEK 

.  53fl 

TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXXV 


©liber  JlaBoj;  33roton 

3To&n  (Militant  ^tacfeail 

BEFORE  AND  AFTER       .... 

541 

AN  ETRUSCAN  RING       .... 

554 

541 

2T*  33.  33,  jBicIjols 

(E&toatS  Cracroft  ILefrop 

LINES  BY  A  PERSON  OF  QUALITY     . 

.  555 

A  SHEPHERD  MAIDEN     .... 

541 

555 

A  SICILIAN  NIGHT      

542 

A  FOOTBALL-PLAYER     .... 

542 

jlrs.  SDarmeoteter 

jlap  fhofcpn 

(A.  MARY  F.  ROBINSON) 

_           -  _.              .... 

v  A  n 

556 

IHE  ±>EES  OF  MYDDELTON  MANOR 
"  Is  IT  NOTHING  TO  You  ?  "     . 

54Jj 
544 

COCKAYNE  COUNTRY       .... 
CELIA'S  HOME-COMING 

556 
.  556 

FROM  "  TUSCAN  CYPRESS  "  (Rispetti)  . 

557 

JHacfeen^ie  33ell 

ROSA  ROSARUM    

.  557 

SPRING'S  IMMORTALITY  .... 
AT  THE   GRAVE  OF    DANTE    GABRIEL 

545 

DARWINISM       
A  BALLAD  OF  ORLEANS,  1429  . 

557 
.  558 

545 

AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

545 

3fo(m  SDabfoaon 

Corn  £)tttt 

HARVEST-HOME  SONG 
A  BALLAD  OF  HEAVEN  .... 

.  558 
558 

OUR  CASUARINA  TREE       .       .       .       . 

545 

LONDON        

.  560 

iSEilliam  §fjnrp 

LloSti  ;£Hull)olli"inti 

THE  LAST  ABORIGINAL  .... 

546 

LOVE  AND  DEATH    

560 

THE  COVES  OF  CRAIL         . 

547 

SISTER  MARY  OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD 

.  560 

THE  ISLE  OF  LOST  DREAMS  . 

547 

THE  DEATH-CHILD     
FROM  "SOSPIRI  DI  ROMA" 

547 

€imb  J3c6lnt  33lanU 

Susurro         

548 

BALLAD  OF  A  BRIDAL     .... 

561 

Red  Poppies  

548 

The  White  Peacock  .... 

548 

Constance  C.  SM.  J^aUen 

SONG      

549 

THE  PANTHEIST'S  SONG  OF  IMMORTAL- 

©scar SSHittie 

ITY     

.  562 

AVE  IMPERATRIX     

549 

Eennell  Eotti 

SDoucrlas  35.  ®SE.  flatten 

A  ROMAN  MIRROR  

563 

** 

564 

A  CHRISTMAS  LETTER  FROM  AUSTRALIA 

551 

IMPERATOR  AUGUSTUS    .... 

564 

SUNSET   ON   THE   CUNIMBLA   VALLEY, 

THE  DAISY  

.  564 

BLUE  MOUNTAINS         .... 

552 

"  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD  "    . 

564 

THE  TROPICS        

552 

564 

FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  "  CHARLES  II  ". 

552 

SALOPIA  INHOSPITALIS       . 

552 

{[Sltlliam  t(LtatBon 

|)enrp  C&arlea  33eec&inji; 

EPIGRAMS 
To  a  Seabird  

.  565 

A  SUMMER  DAY       

553 

The  Play  of  "  King  Lear  " 

565 

To  MY  TOTEM     

553 

Byron  the  Voluptuary   ... 

.  565 

KNOWLEDGE  AFTER  DEATH  . 

554 

On  Diirer's  Melencolia        .        ,        . 

565 

554 

Exit 

.  563 

XXXVI 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


LACHRYM.E    MUSAKUM    (flth    October, 
1892)         
THE  FIRST  SKYLARK  OF  SPRING 
SONG  IN  IMITATION  OF  THE  ELIZABETH- 
ANS   

artbttr  Keefc  Eopeg 

IN  PACE       
ON  THE  BRIDGE      

Ijalm  Slrtlwr  33laittte 

ABSENCE      
SONG    
LOVE'S  SECRET  NAME       . 

Jranrts  <l  bompson 

To  A  POET  BREAKING  SILENCE    . 
DREAM-TRYST     

565 
567 

568 

568 
569 

569 
569 
569 

569 
570 
570 

571 
571 
572 

572 
573 
574 
574 
574 
574 

575 

575 
576 
576 
576 
577 

577 
578 
578 
578 

31  mp  Letop 

A  LONDON  PLANE-TREE 
BETWEEN  THE  SHOWERS  . 
IN  THE  MILE  END  ROAD 
To  VERNON  LEE         . 

(Eliiabetj)  Cratffmple 

SOLWAY  SANDS        

579 

.  579 
579 
.  579 

57e 

.  580 

truest  H&ps 

LONDON  FEAST    

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY       .... 
DIANA    

581 
581 

BRECHVA'S  HARP  SONG  .... 
WHITE  ROSES       

581 

.  582 

SONG  OF  THE  WULFSHAW  LARCHES       . 

Slrtlwt  C&rifitopljer  33ensan 

KNAPWEED  

582 
.  582 

DAISY        

3amcs  Ecnnctf)  H>tepl)tn 

LAPSUS  CALAMI  —  To  R.  K.     . 

583 
.  583 

AN  ENGLISH  SHELL    .... 

AFTER  CONSTRUING        .... 

JRotman  (Sale 

SONG  —  "  THIS  PEACH  is  PINK  " 
SONG  —  "  WAIT  BUT  A  LITTLE  WHILE  " 
A  PRIEST  

583 

.  584 
584 
584 
.  585 
585 
„  585 

A  SONNET    ,        

Uosaimmti  i'Hnrrtott  frdtatson 

("  GRAHAM  R.  TOMSON  ") 

LE  MAUVAIS  LARRON     .... 
DEID  FOLKS'  FERRY  

THE  COUNTRY  FAITH 
A  DEAD  FRIEND      

CONTENT       

THE  FARM  ON  THE  LINKS 
To  MY  CAT      

THE  FIRST  Kiss      . 
To  MY  BROTHERS      .... 
DAWN  AND  DARK    

a.  C.  ©uilletCottcI) 

THE  SPLENDID  SPUR  .... 
THE  WHITE  MOTH  

3Tane  toloto 

A  CURLEW'S  CALL      .... 

585 
<  586 
586 

.  586 

587 

587 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE            

Itete  Jft.  little 

LIFE  

featljartne  Cpnan  pinion 

SHEEP  AND  LAMBS     
DE  PROFUNDIS         
SINGING  STARS     

&eltopn  STmage 

THE  PROTESTATION         .... 
A  PRAYER    

590 
.  591 

THE  SAD  MOTHER  
THE  DEAD  COACH       

iftap  J&en&aH 

A  PURE  HYPOTHESIS      .... 
A  BOARD  SCHOOL  PASTORAL    . 
A  LEGEND        

HER  CONFIRMATION      .         ... 

Herbert  p.  pome 

AMICO  Suo 

591 

.  591 
591 

THE  PAGE  OF  LANCELOT  .... 

FORMOSAE  PUELLAE           .... 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


XXXVll 


NANCY  DAWSON  

592 

THE  FOLK  OF  THE  AIR 

.  604 

"  IF  SHE  BE  MADE  OF  WHITE  AND  RED" 

592 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  MOTHER. 

.      605 

^Harjaret  i.  SiSEoo&a 

George  (LQtlltam  Llusecll 

592 

("  A.  E.») 

To  THE  FORGOTTEN  DEAD    . 

592 

SELF-DISCIPLINE         .... 

.  605 

YOUNG  WlNDEBANK    

593 

KRISHNA    

.      605 

THE  GREAT  BREATH  .... 

.  606 

Hic&arti  ie  <S5aUtenne 

THE  MAN  TO  THE  ANGEL 
OM         

.      608 
.  606 

IMMORTALITY    

.      606 

ORBITS       

593 

LOVE'S  POOR       

593 

REGRET     

593 

C&eoUore  ®SRtatt0lato 

THE  WONDER-CHILD  

594 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  SONG      .... 

594 

THE  MUSIC-HALL       .... 

.  607 

THE  PASSIONATE  READER  TO  HIS  POET 

594 

EXPECTATION    

.      607 

A  VAIN  DESIRE  

.  607 

HttBparto  Utpltng; 

DANNY  DEEVER       

595 

jHarp  €.  (5.  -Spron 

"  FUZZY-  WUZZY  "        

595 

(M.  C.  GILLINGTON) 

THE  BALLAD  OF  EAST  AND  WEST 

596 

THE  TRYST  OF  THE  NIGHT    . 

.      607 

THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE  WORKSHOPS  . 

598 

THE  FAIRY  THRALL  .... 

.  608 

THE  LAW  OF  THE  JUNGLE  . 

599 

THE  LAST  CHANTEY  

600 

aitce  e.  (SUltnffton 

.3lt'ti)Ut    §PlttOU0 

THE  SEVEN  WHISTLERS  . 

.      608 

AT  FONTAINEBLEAU        .... 
JAVANESE  DANCERS    

601 
601 

THE  ROSY  MUSK-MALLOW 
THE  DOOM-BAR       .... 

.  609 
.      609 

DURING  Music         

601 

To  A  PORTRAIT  

601 

SDora  H>ijjet0on 

£>ollte  EaUforU 

ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT      .... 

.  610 

IF  ALL  THE  WORLD        .... 

602 

jOercp  3totJle0!)ato 

602 

MY  LITTLE  DEAR    

602 

("PBBCY  HEMINGWAY") 

A  MODEL      

602 

THE  HAPPY  WANDERER 

.      611 

603 

rr\      .  __T     ,-,„„ 

fin 

1  RAVELLERS  .           .                     ... 
IT   MAY   BE            

.      611 

SMilltam  Sutler  peats 

©Hue  Ctt0tance 

AN  INDIAN  SONG        

603 

AN  OLD  SONG  RESUNG    .... 

604 

THE  WAKING  OF  SPRING  . 

.  611 

THE  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 

604 

TWILIGHT  

.      612 

THE  WHITE  BIRDS  . 

604 

THE  PARTING  HOUR  . 

.  612 

XXXV111 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


IV.     COLONIAL   POETS 

(INDIA  —  AUSTRALASIA  —  DOMINION  OF  CANADA) 


INDIA 

See  TORU  DUTT,  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  in  the  preceding  division  of  this  Anthology.  See  also,  in 
the  second  division,  SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD,  SIR  ALFRED  LYALL, /<*•&•  of  English  birth,  and 
sometime  resident  in  India 


AUSTRALASIA 
(See  also:  A.  DOMETT,  R.  H.  HORNE,  W.  SHARP,  D.  B.  W.  SLADEN) 

|)crcp  KttsseU 

THE  BIRTH  OF  AUSTRALIA    . 


615 


C&atles  f)arjror 


A  MIDSUMMER'S  NOON  IN  THE  AUS- 
TRALIAN FOREST 615 

AN  ABORIGINAL  MOTHER'S  LAMENT   .      616 


Koficvt  Lome 

(VISCOUNT  SHERBROOKB) 
SONG  OF  THE  SQUATTER    . 


&Ham  JLinttsap  Portion 


HOW  WE  BEAT  THE  FAVORITE 
THE  SICK  STOCK-RIDER    . 
VALEDICTORY 


-la  runt  on 

THE  DOMINION  OF  AUSTRALIA 

(S5eorffe  (SorBon  JS'Crae 

FORBY  SUTHERLAND 

|>enrp  Clarence  fcenttall 

To  A  MOUNTAIN  ..... 
COOGEE 


.  616 


617 

.  619 

621 


621 


622 


624 
625 


SEPTEMBER  IN  AUSTRALIA 
THE  LAST  OF  His  TRIBE 
THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WILD  OAK 


.  C26 

627 

.  627 


fJercp  JF.  IHnnett 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WILD  STORM-  WAVES  628 


.   629 


.  630 


THE  DIGGER'S  GRAVE    .  630 


THE  WAIF        .... 

jFrancefi  Cprrell 

BENEATH  THE  WATTLE  BOUGHS 


&rt!wr  JJatcIjett 


LOVE  AND  WAR  . 

THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS  . 


CastiHa 

AN  AUSTRALIAN  GIRL 

Eleanor 

A  NEW  ZEALAND  REGRET     . 
ADIEU    . 


.  631 
631 


.  632 


.   632 
.  633 


TABLE  OF   CONTENTS 


XXXIX 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


§ttfianna  §>trtdxlanfc   jfloofcie 


CANADIAN  HUNTER'S  SONG 


iDatoson  Sbanlp 

THE  WALKER  OF  THE  SNOW    . 

Cfjarlee  |)eab?0effe 

SCENES  FROM  "SAUL"  . 
TWILIGHT 


633 


634 


635 
.  637 


FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF  "  DE  ROBERVAL  "     638 
BRAWN  OF  ENGLAND'S  LAY  .       .       .      641 

Carles  Jftair 

FROM  "TECUMSEH:  A  DRAMA"      .        .  641 

gobn  <E.  ioffan 

("  BARRY  DANE  ") 

THE  NOR'-WEST  COURIER     .       .       .     643 
A  BLOOD-RED  RING   HUNG  ROUND  THE 

MOON 643 

A  DEAD  SINGER 644 

(Seorge  ^ftttrrap 

To  A  HUMMING  BIRD  IN  A  GARDEN        .  644 
&.  LESSON  OF  MERCY 645 


jFre&ericu  Cameron 


THE  GOLDEN  TEXT  . 
STANDING  ON  TIPTOE 
WHAT  MATTERS  IT 


CratoforU 


THE  CANOE 
THE  AXE 

SSEilltam 

THE  CONFUSED  DAWN    . 
PR.ETERITA  EX  INSTANTIBUS 
THE  BATTLE  OF  LA  PRAIRIE 
MONTREAL    . 


.  645 

646 

.  646 


646 

647 


648 

.    648 

648 
.  649 


Charles  <25.  £).  Huberts 

CANADA 649 

THE  ISLES         ...  .      650 

BURNT  LANDS 650 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  GEESE  .        .        .      650 

THE  NIGHT  SKY 651 

THE  DESERTED  CITY      ....      651 

AUTOCHTHON 651 

MARSYAS 652 

EPITAPH  FOR  A  SAILOR  BURIED  ASHORE  652 
THE  KEEPERS  OF  THE  PASS  .  .  .  652 
THE  BIRD'S  SONG,  THE  SUN,  AND  THE 

WIND 653 

AFOOT 653 

DOMINE,  GUI  SUNT  PLEIADES  CURAE  .      653 


SMilliam  MlfreH  Campbell 


To  THE  LAKES    . 
A  CANADIAN  FOLK-SONG 
A  LAKE  MEMORY 
THE  WERE-WOLVES 


654 
654 
655 
655 


JrcUericfe  (Seorp 


KNOWLEDGE         ......  656 

TIME  ........      656 

SAMSON         .......  656 

VAN  ELSEN       ......      657 

AD  MAJOREM  DEI  GLORIAM  .  658 


Koberts 


IN  THE  GOLDEN  BIRCH 


&rcbibalU  iampman 


HEAT 

BETWEEN  THE  RAPIDS   ... 

A  FORECAST 

THE  LOONS 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  END  OF  THINGS. 

•Bliss  Carman 

MARIAN  DRURY 

A  SEA  CHILD 

GOLDEN  ROWAN 

SPRING  SONG 

A  MORE  ANCIENT  MARINER.       . 


658 


659 
659 
660 
661 
661 


662 
662 
662 
663 
664 


xl 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


.  665 

(Rilfacrt  3!3arfepF 

THE  MENDICANTS    .... 

.      665 

666 

SONNETS  FROM  "A  LOVER'S  DIARY" 

.  671 

HACK  AND  HEW      .... 
ENVOY  

666 
.  666 

A  Woman's  Hand        .    •    . 

672 

Art    

.  672 
673 

U>.  Jmnrfcs  garrison 

673 

("SEBANUS") 
CHATEAU  PAPINEAU 

.      667 

.  668 

®.  $)attltne  3fo!)n0on 

THE  SONG  MY  PADDLE  SINGS 

673 

AT  HUSKING  TIME     .... 

.  674 

SDtmcan  Campbell  H>cott 

THE  VAGABONDS     

674 

ABOVE  ST.  IRENES  .... 

.      668 

&rtlwr  SISEeir 

A  LITTLE  SONG  
AT  LES  EBOULEMENTS  . 

.  669 
.      669 

SNOWSHOEING  SONG   .... 

.  674 

OTTAWA        

.  669 

Of-                r\rvt 

AT  THE  CEDARS      .... 

.      669 

vjtiKiiDpu  (flfiaetjjerallj 

IN  NOVEMBER      

.  670 

THE  WIND  OF  DEATH    .... 

675 

THE  REED-PLAYER 

.      670 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  TREES 

.  675 

.  671 

THE  SNOW  STORM                  . 

676 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  . 

671 

.  676 

BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 679 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 713 

INDEX  OF  TITLES .727 

INDEX  OF  POETS        .       .  741 


EARLY  YEARS   OF   THE   REIGN 

(TRANSITION    PERIOD) 

CLOSE   OF   SOUTHEY'S  LAUREATESHIP:  1837-43 
LAUREATESHIP   OF   WORDSWORTH:  1843-50 

Accession  of  Victoria  R.,  June  20,  1837 


THE   PASSING  OF  THE   ELDER  BARDS 
FROM  THE  "EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE  DEATH  OF  JAMES  HOGG" 

THE  mighty  Minstrel  breathes  no  longer, 
Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies ; 
And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow 
Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet's  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured, 
From  sign  to  sign,  its  steadfast  course, 
Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source ; 

The  'rapt  One,  of  the  godlike  forehead, 
The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth : 
And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 
Has  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  the  mountain-summits, 
Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand, 
How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother, 
From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land ! 

Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A  timid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 
"  Who  next  will  drop  and  disappear  ?  " 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

November,  1835. 


EARLY  YEARS   OF  THE    REIGN 

(TRANSITION    PERIOD) 

DISTINCTIVE  POETS  AND  DRAMATISTS 


OVERTURE 

FROM    " THRASYMEDES   AND   EUNOE  " 

WHO  will  away  to  Athens  with  me  ?  who 
Loves  choral   songs   and  maidens  crown'd 

with  flowers, 
Unenvious  ?  mount  the  pinnace  ;  hoist  the 

sail. 

I  promise  ye,  as  many  as  are  here, 
Ye  shall  not,  while  ye  tarry  with  me,  taste 
From  unrins'd  barrel  the  diluted  wine 
Of  a  low  vineyard  or  a  plant  ill  prun'd, 
But  such  as  anciently  the  -ZEgeau  isles 
Pour'd  in  libation  at  their  solemn  feasts  : 
And    the   same   goblets    shall    ye    grasp, 

emboss'd 

With  no  vile  figures  of  loose  languid  boors, 
But  such  as  gods  have  liv'd  with  and  have 

led. 


THE  HAMADRYAD 

KHAICOS  was  born  amid  the  hills  where- 

from 

Gnidos  the  light  of  Caria  is  discern'd, 
And  small  are  the  white-crested  that  play 

near, 

And  smaller  onward  are  the  purple  waves. 
Thence  festal  choirs  were  visible,  all  crown'd 
With  rose  and  myrtle  if  they  were  inborn  ; 
If  from  Pandion  sprang  they,  on  the  coast 
Where  stern  Athene  rais'd  her  citadel, 


Hanfcor 


Then  olive  was  entwin'd  with  violets 
Cluster'd  in  bosses,  regular  and  large  ; 
For  various  men  wore  various  coronals, 
But  one  was  their  devotion  ;  't  was  to  her 
Whose   laws  all  follow,  her  whose  smile 

withdraws 
The  sword  from  Ares,  thunderbolt   from 

Zeus, 

And  whom  in  his  chill  caves  the  mutable 
Of  mind,  Poseidon,  the  sea-king,  reveres, 
And  whom  his  brother,  stubborn  Dis,  hath 

pray'd 

To  turn  in  pity  the  averted  cheek 
Of  her  he  bore  away,  with  promises, 
Nay,  with  loud  oath  before  dread  Styx  it- 
self, 

To  give  her  daily  more  and  sweeter  flowers 

Than  he  made  drop  from  her  on  Enna's  dell. 

Rhaicos  was  looking   from  his  father's 

door 

At  the  long  trains  that  hasten'd  to  the  town 
From  all  the  valleys,  like  bright  rivulets 
Gurgling  with  gladness,  wave  outrunning 

wave, 

And  thought  it  hard  he  might  not  also  go 
And  offer  up  one  prayer,  and  press  one 

hand, 
He  knew  not  whose.     The  father  call'd  him 

in 
And  said,    "  Son   Rhaicos  !   those  are  idle 

games  ; 

Long  enough  I  have  liv'd  to  find  them  so." 
And  ere  he  ended,  sigh'd  ;  as  old  men  do 
Always,  to  think  how  idle  such  games  are. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS  AND   DRAMATISTS 


"  I  have  not  yet,"  thought  Rhaicos  in  his 

heart, 
And  wanted  proof. 

"  Suppose  thou  go  and  help 
Echion  at  the  hill,  to  bark  yon  oak 
And  lop  its  branches  off,  before  we  delve 
About  the  trunk  and  ply  the  root  with  axe  : 
This  we  may  do  in  winter." 

Rhaicos  went  ; 
For  thence  he  could  see  farther,  and  see 

more 

Of  those  who  hurried  to  the  city-gate. 
Echion  he  found  there,  with  naked  arm 
Swart-hair'd,  strong-siuew'd,  and  his  eyes 

intent 
Upon  the  place  where  first  the  axe  should 

fall: 

He  held  it  upright.  "  There  are  bees  about, 
Or  wasps,  or  hornets,"  said  the  cautious  eld, 
«  Look  sharp,  O  son  of  Thallinos  !  "  The 

youth 

Inclin'd  his  ear,  afar,  and  warily, 
And  cavern 'd  in  his  hand.     He  heard  a  buzz 
At  first,  and  then  the  sound  grew  soft  and 

clear, 

And  then  divided  into  what  seem'd  tune, 
And  there  were  words   upon  it,  plaintive 

words. 

He  turn'd,  and  said,  "  Echion  !  do  not  strike 
That  tree  :  it  must  be  hollow  ;  for  some 

god 
Speaks  from  within.     Come  thyself  near." 

Again 
Both  turu'd  toward  it :  and  behold  !  there 

sat 

Upon  the  moss  below,  with  her  two  palms 
Pressing  it,  on  each  side,  a  maid  in  form. 
Downcast  were  her  long  eyelashes,  and  pale 
Her  cheek,  but  never  mountain-ash  display'd 
Berries  of  color  like  her  lip  so  pure, 
Nor  were  the  anemones  about  her  hair 
Soft,  smooth,  and  wavering  like  the  face 

beneath. 

"  What  dost  thou  here  ?  "  Echion,  half- 
afraid, 

Half-angry,  cried.  She  lifted  up  her  eyes, 
But  nothing  spake  she.  Rhaicos  drew  one 

step 

Backward,  for  fear  came  likewise  over  him, 
But  not  such  fear :  he  panted,  gasp'd,  drew 

in 
His  breath,  and  would  have  turn'd  it  into 

words, 
But  could  not  into  one. 

"  O  send  away 


That  sad  old  man  ! "  said  she.    The  old  man 

went 

Without  a  warning  from  his  master's  sou, 
Glad  to  escape,  for  sorely  he  now  fear'd, 
And  the  axe  shone  behind  him  in  their  eyes. 
Hamad.   And  wouldst  thou  too  shed  the 

most  innocent 
Of  blood  ?     No  vow  demands  it ;  no  god 

wills 
The  oak  to  bleed. 

Rhaicos.   Who  art  thou  ?  whence  ?  why 

here  ? 
And  whither  wouldst  thou  go  ?    Among  the 

rob'd 

In  white  or  saffron,  or  the  hue  that  most 
Resembles  dawn  or  the  clear  sky,  is  none 
Array'd  as  thou  art.  What  so  beautiful 
As  that  gray  robe  which  clings  about  thee 

close, 
Like   moss  to  stones   adhering,  leaves  to 

trees, 

Yet  lets  thy  bosom  rise  and  fall  in  turn, 
As,  touch'd   by  zephyrs,  fall  and  rise  the 

boughs 

Of  graceful  platan  by  the  river-side  ? 
Hamad.   Lovest  thou   well   thy  father's 

house  ? 

Rhaicos.  Indeed 

I  love  it,  well  I  love  it,  yet  would  leave 
For  thine,  where'er  it  be,  my  father's  house, 
With  all  the  marks  upon  the  door,  that  show 
My  growth  at  every  birthday  since  the  third, 
And  all  the  charms,  o'erpowering  evil  eyes, 
My  mother  nail'd  for  me  against  my  bed, 
And  the  Cydonian  bow  (which  thou  shalt 

see) 

Won  in  my  race  last  spring  from  Eutychos. 
Hamad.    Bethink  thee  what  it  is  to  leave 

a  home 

Thou  never  yet  hast  left,  one  night,  one  day. 
Rhaicos.    No,  't  is  not  hard  to  leave  it : 

't  is  not  hard 

To  leave,  O  maiden,  that  paternal  home 
If  there  be  one  on  earth  whom  we  may  love 
First,  last,  for  ever  ;  one  who  says  that  she 
Will  love  for  ever  too.     To  say  which  word, 
Only  to  say  it,  surely  is  enough. 
It  shows  such  kindness  —  if  't  were  possible 
We  at  the  moment  think  she  would  indeed. 
Hamad.    Who  taught  thee  all  this  folly  at 

thy  age  ? 
Rhaicos.   I  have  seen   lovers   and   have 

learn'd  to  love. 

Hamad.   But  wilt  thou  spare  the  tree  ? 
Rhaicos.  My  father  wants 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR 


5 


The  bark ;  the  tree  may  hold  its  place  awhile. 
Hamad.    Awhile  ?    thy   father    numbers 

then  my  days  ? 

Rhaicos.    Are  there  no  others  where  the 
moss  beneath 

Is  quite  as  tufty  ?     Who  would  send  thee 
forth 

Or  ask  thee  why  thou  tarriest  ?    Is  thy  flock 

Anywhere  near  ? 

Hamad.  I  have  no  flock  :  I  kill 

Nothing  that  breathes,  that  stirs,  that  feels 
the  air, 

The  sun,  the  dew.     Why  should  the  beauti- 
ful 

(And  thou  art  beautiful)  disturb  the  source 

Whence  springs  all   beauty  ?     Hast  thou 
never  heard 

Of  Hamadryads  ? 

Rhaicos.  Heard  of  them  I  have  : 

Tell  me  some  tale  about  them.     May  I  sit 

Beside  thy  feet  ?    Art  thou  not  tired  ?    The 
herbs 

Are  very  soft  ;  I  will  not  come  too  nigh  ; 

Do  but  sit  there,  nor  tremble  so,  nor  doubt. 

Stay,  stay  an  instant :  let  me  first  explore 

If  any  acorn  of  last  year  be  left 

Within  it ;  thy  thin  robe  too  ill  protects 

Thy  dainty  limbs  against  the  harm  one  small 

Acorn  may  do.    Here  's  none.   Another  day 

Trust  me  ;  till  then  let  me  sit  opposite. 
Hamad.    I  seat  me  ;  be  thou  seated,  and 

content. 

Rhaicos.   O  sight  for  gods  !  ye  men  be- 
low !  adore 

The  Aphrodite  !     Is  she  there  below  ? 

Or  sits  she  here  before  me?  as  she  sate 

Before  the'  shepherd  on  those  heights  that 
shade 

The  Hellespont,  and  brought  his  kindred 

woe. 

Hamad.    Reverence  the  higher  Powers  ; 
nor  deem  amiss 

Of  her  who  pleads  to  thee,  and  would  re- 

pay- 

Ask  not  how  much  —  but  very  much.     Rise 

not  : 

No,  Rhaicos,  no  !     Without  the  nuptial  vow 
Love  is  unholy.     Swear  to  me  that  none 
Of  mortal  maids  shall  ever  taste  thy  kiss, 
Then  take  thou  mine  ;   then  take   it,  not 

before. 
Rhaicos.    Hearken,   all  gods  above  !     O 

Aphrodite  ! 

0  Here  !     Let  my  vow  be  ratified  ! 
But  wilt  thou  come  into  my  father's  house? 


Hamad.  Nay  :  and  of  mine  I  cannot  give 

thee  part. 

Rhaicos.   Where  is  it  ? 
Hamad.  In  this  oak. 

Rhaicos.  Ay  ;  now  begins 

The  tale  of  Hamadryad  :  tell  it  through. 
Hamad.    Pray  of  thy  father  never  to  cut 

down 
My  tree  ;   and  promise  him,  as  well  thou 

mayst, 

That  every  year  he  shall  receive  from  me 
More  honey  than  will  buy  him  nine  fat  sheep. 
More  wax  than  he  will  burn  to  all  the  gods. 
Why  fallest  thou   upon  thy  face  ?     Some 

thorn 
May  scratch  it,  rash  young  man  !    Rise  up  ; 

for  shame  ! 
Rhaicos.   For  shame  I  cannot  rise.    O  pity 

me  ! 

I  dare  not  sue  for  love  —  but  do  not  hate  ! 
Let  me  once  more  behold  thee  —  not  once 

more, 

But  many  days  :  let  me  love  on  —  unlov'd  ! 
I  aim'd  too  high  :  on  my  own  head  the  bolt 
Falls  back,  and  pierces  to  the  very  brain. 
Hamad.   Go  —  rather  go,  than  make  me 

say  I  love. 

Rhaicos.    If  happiness  is  immortality, 
(And  whence  enjoy  it  else  the  gods  above  ?) 
I  am  immortal  too  :  my  vow  is  heard  — 
Hark  !  on  the  left  —  Nay,  turn  not  from  me 

now, 
I  claim  my  kiss. 

Hamad.    Do  men  take  first,  then  claim  ? 
Do  thus  the  seasons  run  their  course  with 
them? 

Her  lips  were  seal'd  ;  her  head  sank  on 

his  breast. 
'T  is  said  that  laughs  were  heard  within  the 

wood  : 
But  who   should   hear   them  ?  and   whose 

laughs  ?  and  why  ? 

Savory  was  the  smell  and  long  past  noon, 
Thallinos  !  in  thy  house  ;  for  marjoram, 
Basil  and  mint,  and  thyme  and  rosemary, 
Were  sprinkled  on  the   kid's  well  roasted 

length, 

Awaiting  Rhaicos.     Home  he  came  at  last, 
Not  hungry,  but  pretending  hunger  keen, 
With  head  and  eyes   just  o'er  the   maple 

plate. 
"  Thou  see'st  but  badly,  coming  from  the 

sun, 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Boy  Rhaicos!"   said  the   father.     "That 

oak's  bark 

Must  have  been  tough,  with  little  sap  be- 
tween ; 

It  ought  to  run  ;  but  it  and  I  are  old." 
Rhaicos,  although  each  morsel  of  the  bread 
Increas'd  by  chewing,  and  the  meat  grew 

cold 

And  tasteless  to  his  palate,  took  a  draught 
Of  gold-bright  wine,  which,  thirsty  as  he 

was, 

He  thought  not  of,  until  his  father  fill'd 
The  cup,  averring  water  was  amiss, 
But  wine  had  been  at  all  times  pour'd  on  kid. 
It  was  religion. 

He  thus  fortified 

Said,  not  quite  boldly,  and  not  quite  abash'd, 
"  Father,  that  oak  is  Zeus's  own  ;  that  oak 
Year  after  year  will  bring  thee  wealth  from 

wax 
And  honey.     There  is  one  who  fears  the 


And  the  gods  love  —  that  one  " 

(He  blush'd,  nor  said 
What  one) 

"  Has  promis'd  this,  and  may  do  more. 
Thou  hast  not  many  moons  to  wait  until 
The  bees  have  done  their   best  ;   if  then 

there  come 

Nor  wax  nor  honey,  let  the  tree  be  hewn." 
"  Zeus  hath  bestow'd  on  thee  a  prudent 

mind," 
Said  the  glad  sire  :  "  but  look  thou  often 

there, 

And  gather  all  the  honey  thou  canst  find 
In  every  crevice,  over  and  above 
What  has  been  promis'd  ;  would  they  reckon 

that  ?  " 

Rhaicos  went  daily;  but  the  nymph  as  oft, 
Invisible.     To  play  at  love,  she  knew, 
Stopping  its  breathings  when  it  breathes 

most  soft, 

Is  sweeter  than  to  play  on  any  pipe. 
She  play'd  on  his  :  she  fed  upon  his  sighs  ; 
They  pleas'd  her  when  they  gently  wav'd 

her  hair, 

Cooling  the  pulses  of  her  purple  veins, 
And  when  her  absence  brought  them  out, 

they  pleas'd. 

Even  among  the  fondest  of  them  all, 
What  mortal  or  immortal  maid  is  more 
Content  with  giving  happiness  than  pain  ? 
One  day  he  was  returning  from  the  wood 
Despondently.     She  pitied  him,  and  said 


"  Come  back  !  "  and  twin'd  her  fingers  in 

the  hem 

Above  his  shoulder.     Then  she  led  his  steps 
To  a  cool  rill  that  ran  o'er  level  sand 
Through  lentiskand  through  oleander;  there 
Bath'd  she  his  feet,  lifting  them  on  her  lap 
When  bath'd,  and  drying  them  in  both  her 

hands. 
He  dar'd  complain  ;  for  those  who  most  are 

lov'd 

Most  dare  it  ;  but  not  harsh  was  his  com- 
plaint. 

"  O  thou  inconstant !  "  said  he,  "  if  stern  law 
Bind  thee,  or  will,  stronger  than  sternest 

law, 

O,  let  me  know  henceforward  when  to  hope 
The  fruit  of  love  that  grows  for  me  but 

here." 
He  spake  ;  and  pluck'd  it  from  its  pliant 

stem. 

"  Impatient  Rhaicos  !  Why  thus  intercept 
The  answer  I  would  give  ?  There  is  a  bee 
Whom  I  have  fed,  a  bee  who  knows  my 

thoughts 

And  executes  my  wishes  :  I  will  send 
That  messenger.     If  ever  thou  art  false, 
Drawn  by  another,  own  it  not,  but  drive 
My  bee  away  :  then  shall  I  know  my  fate, 
And  —  for  thou  must  be  wretched  —  weep 

at  thine. 

But  often  as  my  heart  persuades  to  lay 
Its  cares  on  thine  and  throb  itself  to  rest, 
Expect  her  with  thee,  whether  it  be  morn 
Or  eve,  at  any  time  when  woods  are  safe." 

Day   after  day  the  Hours  beheld  them 

blest, 

And  season  after  season  :  years  had  past, 
Blest  were  they  still.     He  who  asserts  that 

Love 

Ever  is  sated  of  sweet  things,  the  same 
Sweet  things  he  fretted  for  in  earlier  days, 
Never,  by  Zeus  !  lov'd  he  a  Hamadryad. 

The  nights  had  now  grown  longer,  and 

perhaps 

The  Hamadryads  find  them  lone  and  dull 
Among  their  woods  ;  one  did,  alas  !     She 

call'd 
Her    faithful    bee  :  't  was   when  all  bees 

should  sleep, 
And  all  did  sleep  but  hers.     She  was  sent 

forth 

To  bring  that  light  which  never  wintry  blast 
Blows  out,  nor  rain  nor  snow  extinguishes, 
The  light  that  shines  from  loving  eyes  upon 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Eyes  that  love  back,  till  they  can  see  no 

more. 

Rhaicos  was  sitting  at  his  father's  hearth  : 
Between  them  stood  the  table,  not  o'er- 

spread 
With  fruits  which  autumn  now  profusely 

bore, 
Nor  anise   cakes,  nor  odorous  wine  ;  but 

there 
The  draft-board  was  expanded  ;  at  which 

game 

Triumphant  sat  old  Thallinos  ;  the  son 
Was  puzzled,  vex'd,  discomfited,  distraught. 
A  buzz  was  at  his  ear  :  up  went  his  hand 
And  it  was  heard  no  longer.     The  poor  bee 
Return'd    (but   not   until  the  morn  shone 

bright) 

And  found  the  Hamadryad  with  her  head 
Upon  her  aching  wrist,  and  show'd  one  wing 
Half-broken  off,  the  other's  meshes  marr'd, 
And  there  were  bruises  which  no  eye  could 

see 
Saving  a  Hamadryad's. 

At  this  sight 
Down  fell  the  languid  brow,  both  hands  fell 

down, 

A  shriek  was  carried  to  the  ancient  hall 
Of  Thallinos  :  he  heard  it  not :  his  son 
Heard  it,  and  ran  forthwith  into  the  wood. 
No  bark  was  on  the  tree,  no  leaf  was  green, 
The  trunk  was  riven  through.     From  that 

day  forth 
Nor  word  nor  whisper  sooth'd  his  ear,  nor 

sound 

Even  of  insect  wing  ;  but  loud  laments 
The  woodmen  and  the  shepherds  one  long 

year 
Heard  day  and  night ;  for  Rbaicos  would 

not  quit 
The  solitary  place,  but  moan'd  and  died. 

Hence  milk  and  honey  wonder  not,  O  guest, 
To  find  set  duly  on  the  hollow  stone. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ARTEMIDORA 

"  ARTEMIDORA  !     Gods  invisible, 
While  thou  art  lying  faint  along  the  couch, 
Have  tied  the  sandal  to  thy  veined  feet, 
And  stand  beside  thee,  ready  to  convey 
Thy  weary  steps  where  other  rivers  flow. 
Refreshing  shades  will  waft  thy  weariness 
Away,  and  voices  like  thine  own  come  nigh, 
Soliciting,  nor  vainly,  thy  embrace." 


Artemidora  sigh'd,and  would  have  press'd 
The  hand  now  pressing  hers,  but  was  too 

weak. 

Fate's  shears  were  over  her  dark  hair  un- 
seen 

While  thus  Elpenor  spake  :  he  look'd  into 
Eyes  that  had  given  light  and  life  erewhile 
To  those  above  them,  those  now  dim  with 

tears 

And  watchfulness.  Again  he  spake  of  joy. 
Eternal.  At  that  word,  that  sad  word,  joy, 
Faithful  and  fond  her  bosom  heav'd  once 

more, 
Her  head  fell  back  :  one  sob,  one  loud  deep 

sob 
Swell'd   through  the   darken'd  chamber  ; 

't  was  not  hers  : 

With  her  that  old  boat  incorruptible, 
Unwearied,  undiverted  in  its  course, 
Had  plash'd  the  water  up  the  farther  strand. 


FROM  "MYRTIS" 

FRIENDS,  whom  she  look'd  at  blandly  from 
her  couch 

And  her  white  wrist  above  it,  gem-bedew'd, 

Were  arguing  with  Pentheusa  :  she  had 
heard 

Report  of  Creon's  death,  whom  years  before 

She  listen'd  to,  well-pleas'd ;  and  sighs 
arose  ; 

For  sighs  full  often  fondle  with  reproofs 

And  will  be  fondled  by  them.  When  I 
came 

After  the  rest  to  visit  her,  she  said, 

"  Myrtis  !  how  kind  !  Who  better  knows 
than  thou 

The  pangs  of  love  ?  and  my  first  love  was 
he  ! " 

Tell  me  (if  ever,  Eros  !  are  reveal'd 

Thy  secrets  to  the  earth)  have  they  been 
true 

To  any  love  who  speak  about  the  first  ? 

What !  shall  these  holier  lights,  like  twin- 
kling stars 

In  the  few  hours  assign'd  them,  change 
their  place, 

And,  when  comes  ampler  splendor,  disap- 
pear ? 

Idler  I  am,  and  pardon,  not  reply, 

Implore  from  thee,  thus  question'd  ;  well 
I  know 

Thou  strikest,  like  Olympian  Jove,  but 
once. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


LITTLE  AGLAE 

TO  HER  FATHER,  ON   HER  STATUE   BEING 
CALLED  LIKE  HER 

FATHER  !  the  little  girl  we  see 
Is  not,  I  fancy,  so  like  me  ; 
You  never  hold  her  on  your  knee. 

When  she  came  home,  the  other  day, 
You  kiss'd  her  ;  but  I  cannot  say 
She  kiss'd  you  first  and  ran  away. 


TO   A   CYCLAMEN 

£  COME  to  visit  thee  agen, 
My  little  flowerless  cyclamen  ; 
To  touch  the  hand,  almost  to  press, 
That  cheer'd  thee  in  thy  loneliness. 
What  could  thy  careful  guardian  find 
Of  thee  in  form,  of  me  in  mind, 
What  is  there  in  us  rich  or  rare, 
To  make  us  claim  a  moment's  care  ? 
Unworthy  to  be  so  carest, 
We  are  but  withering  leaves  at  best. 


DIRCE 

STAND  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set, 
With  Dirce  in  one  boat  convey'd, 
'  Or  Charon,  seeing,  may  forget 
That  he  is  old,  and  she  a  shade. 


AN  INVOCATION 

WE  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters 

make  us  ; 
The  mountains  are  our  sponsors,  and  the 

rills 
Fashion  and  win  their  nursling  with  their 

smiles. 

But  where  the  land  is  dim  from  tyranny, 
There  tiny  pleasures  occupy  the  place 
Of  glories  and  of  duties  ;  as  the  feet 
Of  fabled  faeries  when  the  sun  goes  down 
Trip  o'er  the  grass  where  wrestlers  strove 

by  day.  * 

Then  Justice,  call'd  the  Eternal  One  above, 
Is  more  inconstant  than  the  buoyant  form 
That  burst  into  existence  from  the  froth 
Of  ever-varying  ocean  :  what  is  best 


Then  becomes  worst ;  what  loveliest,  most 

deform'd. 

The  heart  is  hardest  in  the  softest  climes, 
The  passions  flourish,  the  affections  die. 
O  thou  vast  tablet  of  these  awful  truths, 
That  fillest  all  the  space  between  the  seas, 
Spreading  from  Venice's  deserted  courts 
To  the  Tarentine  and  Hydruntine  mole, 
What  lifts  thee  up  ?  what  shakes  thee  ?  't  is 

the  breath 

Of  God.  Awake,  ye  nations  !  spring  to  life  ! 
Let  the  last  work  of  his  right  hand  appear 
Fresh  with  his  image,  Man. 


FROM  "GEBIR" 

TAMAR   AND   THE   NYMPH 

"  'T  WAS  evening,  though  not  sunset,  and 

the  tide, 
Level  with   these  green  meadows,  seem'd 

yet  higher  : 
'Twas  pleasant,  and  I  loosen'd  from  my 

neck 
The  pipe  you  gave  me,  and  began  to  play. 

0  that  I  ne'er  had  learn'd   the   tuneful 

art  ! 

It  always  brings  us  enemies  or  love. 
Well,  I  was  playing,  when  above  the  waves 
Some  swimmer's   head  methought   I   saw 

ascend  ; 

I,  sitting  still,  survey'd  it  with  rny  pipe 
Awkwardly  held  before  my  lips  half-clos'd. 
Gebir  !  it  was  a  Nymph  !  a  Nymph  divine  J 

1  cannot  wait  describing  how  she  came, 
How  I  was  sitting,  how  she  first  assum'd 
The  sailor  ;  of  what  happen'd  there  remains 
Enough  to  say,  and  too  much  to  forget. 
The  sweet  deceiver  stepp'd  upon  this  bank 
Before  I  was  aware  ;  for  with  surprise 
Moments  fly  rapid  as  with  love  itself. 
Stooping  to  tune  afresh  the  hoarsen'd  reed, 
I  heard  a  rustling,  and  where  that  arose 
My  glance  first  lighted  on  her  nimble  feet. 
Her  feet  resembled  those  long  shells  ex- 

plor'd 

By  him  who  to  befriend  his  steed's  dim  sight 
Would  blow  the  pungent  powder  in  the  eye. 
Her  eyes  too  !  O  immortal  gods  !  her  eyes 
Resembled  —  what  could  they  resemble  ? 

what 

Ever  resemble  those  ?     Even  her  attire 
Was  not  of  wonted  woof  nor  vulgar  art : 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Her  mantle  show'd  the  yellow  samphire- 
pod, 

Her  girdle  the  dove-color'd  wave  serene. 
'  Shepherd/  said  she,  '  and  will  you  wrestle 

now 

And  with  the  sailor's  hardier  race  engage  ?  ' 
I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  contriv'd 
How  to  keep  up  contention  :  could  I  fail 
By  pressing  not  too  strongly,  yet  to  press  ? 
'  Whether  a  shepherd,  as  indeed  you  seem, 
Or  whether  of  the  hardier  race  you  boast, 
I  am  not  daunted  ;  no  ;  I  will  engage.' 
'  But  first,'  said  she,  '  what  wager  will  you 

lay?' 
'  A  sheep,'  I  answered  :  '  add  whate'er  you 

will.' 

'  I  cannot,'  she  replied,  '  make  that  return  : 
Our  hided  vessels  in  their  pitchy  round 
Seldom,  unless  from  rapine,  hold  a  sheep. 
But  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbib'd 
In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where  when  un- 

yok'd 
His  chariot-wheel  stands   midway   in   the 

wave  : 

Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 
Its  polish'd  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 
And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 
And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 
And  I  have  others  given  me  by  the  nymphs, 
Of  sweeter  sound  than  any  pipe  you  have  : 
But  we,  by  Neptune  !  for  no  pipe  contend  ; 
This  time  a  sheep  I  win,  a  pipe  the  next.' 
Now  came  she  forward  eager  to  engage, 
But  first  her  dress,  her  bosom  then  survey'd 
And  heav'd  it,  doubting  if  she  could  deceive. 
Her  bosom   seem'd,  inclos'd  in  haze   like 

heaven, 

To  baffle  touch,  and  rose  forth  undefin'd  ; 
Above  her  knee  she  drew  the  robe  succinct, 
Above  her  breast,  and  just  below  her  arms. 
'  This  will  preserve  my  breath  when  tightly 

bound, 
If  struggle  and   equal  strength  should  so 

constrain.' 

Thus,  pulling  hard  to  fasten  it,  she  spake, 
And,    rushing    at   me,   clos'd  :    I   thrill'd 

throughout 
And  seem'd  to  lessen  and  shrink  up  with 

cold. 

Again  with  violent  impulse  gush'd  my  blood, 
And  hearing  nought  external,  thus  absorb'd, 
I  heard  it,  rushing  through  each  turbid  vein, 
Shake  my  unsteady  swimming  sight  in  air. 
Yet  with  unyielding  though  uncertain  arms 


I  clung  around  her  neck  ;  the  vest  beneath 
Rustled  against  our  slippery  limbs  entwin'd: 
Often  mine  springing  with  eluded  force 
Started  aside  and  trembled  till  replaced  : 
And  when  I  most  succeeded,  as  I  thought, 
My  bosom  and  my  throat  felt  so  compress'd 
That  life  was  almost  quivering  on  my  lips. 
Yet  nothing  was  there  painful :  these  are 

signs 

Of  secret  arts  and  not  of  human  might ; 
What  arts  I  cannot  tell  ;  I  only  know 
My    eyes    grew   dizzy    and    my   strength 

decay'd  ; 

I  was  indeed  o'ercome  —  with  what  regret, 
And  more,  with   what  confusion,  when   I 

reach 'd 
The  fold,  and  yielding  up  the  sheep,  she 

cried, 
'  This   pays   a    shepherd   to   a   conquering 

maid.' 

She  smil'd,  and  more  of  pleasure  than  dis- 
dain 

Was  in  her  dimpled  chin  and  liberal  lip, 
And  eyes  that  languish'd,  lengthening,  just 

like  love. 

She  went  away  ;  I  on  the  wicker  gate 
Leant,   and    could    follow   with   my    eyes 

alone 

The  sheep  she  carried  easy  as  a  cloak  ; 
But  when  I  heard  its  bleating,  as  I  did, 
And  saw,  she  hastening  on,  its  hinder  feet 
Struggle,  and  from  her  snowy  shoulder  slip, 
One  shoulder  its  poor  efforts  had  unveil'd, 
Then  all  my  passions  mingling  fell  in  tears  ; 
Restless  then  ran  I  to  the  highest  ground 
To  watch  her  ;  she  was  gone  ;  gone  down 

the  tide  ; 
And  the  long  moonbeam  on  the  hard  wet 

sand 
Lay  like  a  jasper  column  half  uprear'd." 


TO   YOUTH 

WHERE  art  thou  gone,  light-ankled  Youth  ? 

With  wing  at  either  shoulder, 
And  smile  that  never  left  thy  mouth 

Until  the  Hours  grew  colder  : 

Then  somewhat  seem'd  to  whisper  near 

That  thou  and  I  must  part  ; 
I  doubted  it ;  I  felt  no  fear, 

No  weight  upon  the  heart. 


IO 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


If  aught  befell  it,  Love  was  by 

And  roll'd  it  off  again  ; 
So,  if  there  ever  was  a  sigh, 

'T  was  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 

I  may  not  call  thee  back  ;  but  thou 
Returnest  when  the  hand 

Of  gentle  Sleep  waves  o'er  my  brow 
His  poppy-crested  wand  ; 

Then  smiling  eyes  bend  over  mine, 
Then  lips  once  press'd  invite  ; 

But  sleep  hath  given  a  silent  sign, 
And  both,  alas  !  take  flight. 


TO   AGE 

WELCOME,  old  friend  !     These  many  years 

Have  we  liv'd  door  by  door : 
The  Fates  have  laid  aside  their  shears 

Perhaps  for  some  few  more. 

I  was  indocile  at  an  age 

When  better  boys  were  taught, 

But  thou  at  length  hast  made  me  sage, 
If  I  am  sage  in  aught. 

Little  I  know  from  other  men, 

Too  little  they  from  me, 
But  thou  hast  pointed  well  the  pen 

That  writes  these  lines  to  thee. 

Thanks  for  expelling  Fear  and  Hope, 

One  vile,  the  other  vain  ; 
One's  scourge,  the  other's  telescope, 

I  shall  not  see  again  : 

Rather  what  lies  before  my  feet 

My  notice  shall  engage. 
He  who  hath  brav'd  Youth's  dizzy  heat 

Dreads  not  the  frost  of  Age. 


ROSE  AYLMER 

AH  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  1 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 


ROSE    AYLMER'S     HAIR,    GIVEN 
BY   HER   SISTER 

BEAUTIFUL  spoils  !  borne  off  from  van- 
quish'd  death ! 

Upon  my  heart's  high  altar  shall  ye  lie. 
Mov  d  but  by  only  one  adorer's  breath, 

Retaining  youth,  rewarding  constancy. 


CHILD   OF   A   DAY 

CHILD  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not 

The  tears  that  overflow  thine  urn, 
The  gushing  eyes  that  read  thy  lot, 

Nor,  if  thou  knewest,  couldst  return. 
And  why  the  wish  !  the  pure  and  blest 

Watch  like  thy  mother  o'er  thy  sleep. 
O  peaceful  night !     O  envied  rest  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  ever  see  her  weep. 


FIESOLAN  IDYL 

HERE,  where  precipitate  Spring  with  one 

light  bound 

Into  hot  Summer's  lusty  arms  expires, 
And  where   go  forth  at  morn,  at  eve,  at 

night, 

Soft  airs  that  want  the  lute  to  play  with  'em, 
And  softer  sighs  that  know  not  what  they 

want, 

Aside  a  wall,  beneath  an  orange-tree, 
Whose  tallest  flowers  could  tell  the  lowlier 

ones 

Of  sights  in  Fiesole  right  up  above, 
While  I  was  gazing  a  few  paces  off 
At  what  they  seem'd  to  show  me  with  their 

nods, 
Their  frequent  whispers  and  their  pointing 

shoots, 

A  gentle  maid  came  down  the  garden-steps 
And  gather'd  the  pure  treasure  in  her  lap. 
I   heard  the  branches  rustle,  and  stepp'd 

forth 

To  drive  the  ox  away,  or  mule,  or  goat, 
Such  I  believ'd  it  must  be.     How  could  I 
Let  beast  o'erpower  them  ?  when  hath  wind 

or  rain 
Borne  hard  upon  weak  plant  that  wanted 

me, 
And  I  (however  they  might  bluster  round) 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Walk'd  off  ?    'T  were  most  ungrateful :  for 

sweet  scents 
Are    the   swift   vehicles   of    still    sweeter 

thoughts, 

And  nurse  and  pillow  the  dull  memory 
That  would  let  drop  without  them  her  best 

stores. 
They  bring  me  tales  of  youth  and  tones  of 

love, 

A.nd  't  is  and  ever  was  my  wish  and  way 
To  let  all  flowers  live  freely,  and  all  die 
(Whene'er  their  Genius  bids  their  souls 

depart) 

Among  their  kindred  in  their  native  place. 
I  never  pluck  the  rose  ;  the  violet's  head 
Hath  shaken  with  my  breath  upon  its  bank 
And   not  reproach'd  me  ;  the  ever-sacred 

cup 

Of  the  pure  lily  hath  between  my  hands 
Felt  safe,  unsoU'd,  nor  lost  one  grain  of  gold. 
I  saw  the  light  that  made  the  glossy  leaves 
More  glossy  ;  the  fair  arm,  the  fairer  cheek 
Warm'd  by  the  eye  intent  on  its  pursuit  ; 
I  saw  the  foot  that,  although  half-erect 
From  its  gray  slipper,  could  not  lift  her  up 
To  what  she  wanted  :  I  held  down  a  branch 
And  gather'd   her  some  blossoms  ;  since 

their  hour 
Was  come,  and  bees  had  wounded  them, 

and  flies 
Of  harder   wing  were  working  their  way 

through 
And  scattering  them  in  fragments  under 

foot. 

So  crisp  were  some,  they  rattled  unevolv'd, 
Others,  ere  broken  off,  fell  into  shells, 
Unbending,  brittle,  lucid,  white  like  snow, 
And  like  snow  not  seen  through,  by  eye  or 

sun  : 

Yet  every  one  her  gown  receiv'd  from  me 
Was  fairer  than  the  first.     I  thought  not  so, 
But  so  she  prais'd  them  to  reward  my  care. 
I  said,  "  You  find  the  largest." 

"  This  indeed," 
Cried  she,  "  is  large  and  sweet."    She  held 

one  forth, 

Whether  for  me  to  look  at  or  to  take 
She  knew  not,  nor  did  I ;  but  taking  it 
Would  best  have  solv'd  (and  this  she  felt) 

her  doubt. 

I  dar'd  not  touch  it ;  for  it  seem'd  a  part 
Of  her  own  self ;    fresh,   full,   the   most 

mature 

Of  blossoms,  yet  a  blossom  ;  with  a  touch 
To  fall,  and  yet  unf alien.     She  drew  back 


The  boon  she  tender'd,  and  then,  finding  not 
The  ribbon  at  her  waist  to  fix  it  in, 
Dropp'd  it,  as  loth  to  drop  it,  on  the  rest. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

I  LEAVE  thee,  beauteous  Italy  !  no  more 
From  the  high  terraces,  at  even-tide, 
To  look  supine  into  thy  depths  of  sky, 
Thy  golden  moon  between  the  cliff  and  me, 
Or  thy  dark  spires  of  fretted  cypresses 
Bordering  the  channel  of  the  milky  way. 
Fiesole  and  Valdarno  must  be  dreams 
Hereafter,  and  my  own  lost  Affrico 
Murmur  to  me  but  in  the  poet's  song. 
I  did  believe  (what  have  I  not  believ'd?), 
Weary  with  age,  but  unoppress'd  by  pain, 
To  close  in  thy  soft  clime  my  quiet  day 
And  rest  my  bones  in  the  mimosa's  shade. 
Hope  !    Hope  !    few  ever  cherish'd  thee  so 

little  ; 

Few  are  the  heads  thou  hast  so  rarely  rais'd ; 
But  thou  didst  promise  this,  and  all  was 

well. 

For  we  are  fond  of  thinking  where  to  lie 
When  every  pulse  hath  ceas'd,  when  the 

lone  heart 

Can  lift  no  aspiration  —  reasoning 
As  if  the  sight  were  unimpair'd  by  death, 
Were  unobstructed  by  the  coffin-lid, 
And  the  sun  cheer'd  corruption  !     Over  all 
The  smiles  of  Nature  shed  a  potent  charm, 
And  light  us  to  our  chamber  at  the  grave. 


THE   MAID'S   LAMENT 

ELIZABETHAN 

I  LOV'D  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 

I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet  could 
he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  liv'd  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  bid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death. 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 


12 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Who  wasted  his  for  me  ;  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart  :  for 
years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
Merciful  God  !  such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

These  may  she  never  share  ! 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold, 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  church- 
yard gate, 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And  oh  !  pray  too  for  me  ! 


MARGARET 

MOTHER,  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel ; 
My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry  ; 
Oh,  if  you  felt  the  pain  I  feel ! 
But  oh,  who  ever  felt  as  I ! 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true, 
All  other  men  may  use  deceit ; 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 
And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 


ON   MUSIC 

MANY  love  music  but  for  music's  sake  ; 
Many  because  her  touches  can  awake 
Thoughts  that  repose  within  the  breast  half 

dead, 

And  rise  to  follow  where  she  loves  to  lead. 
What    various   feelings  come    from    days 

gone  by  ! 
What  tears  from  far-off  sources  dim  the 

eye! 
Few,  when  light  fingers  with  sweet  voices 

play, 
And    melodies    swell,    pause,    and    melt 

away, 

Mind  how  at  every  touch,  at  every  tone, 
A  spark  of  life  hath  glisten'd  and  hath  gone. 

PLAYS 

ALAS,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over 
Counted  us  out  to  play  the  lover  1 
And  how  much  narrower  is  the  stage 
Allotted  us  to  play  the  sage  ! 


But  when  we  play  the  fool,  how  wide 
The  theatre  expands  !  beside, 
How  long  the  audience  sits  before  us  ! 
How  many  prompters  !  what  a  chorus  ! 


THERE      FALLS     WITH      EVERY 
WEDDING   CHIME 

THERE  falls  with  every  wedding  chime 
A  feather  from  the  wing  of  Time. 
You  pick  it  up,  and  say  "  How  fair 
To  look  upon  its  colors  are  !  " 
Another  drops  day  after  day 
Unheeded  ;  not  one  word  you  say. 
When  bright  and  dusky  are  blown  past, 
Upon  the  hearse  there  nods  the  last. 


SHAKESPEARE   AND    MILTOV 

THE  tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads 
Have  spoken  and  will  speak,  were  paralyz'd 
Hereafter,  but  two  mighty  men  stand 

forth 

Above  the  flight  of  ages,  two  alone  ; 
One  crying  out, 

All  nations  spoke  through  me. 
The  other  : 

True  •  and  through  this  trumpet  burst 
God's  word ;  the  fall  of  Angels,  and   the 

doom 

First  of  immortal,  then  of  mortal,  Man. 
Glory  1  be  glory  !  not  to  me,  to  God. 


MACAU LAY 

THE  dreamy  rhymer's  measur'd  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more  ; 
And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
The  dear  delights  of  woman-kind, 
Who  win  their  battles  like  their  loves, 
In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 
And  have  achiev'd  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  truss'd  and   skewer'd  a 

Turk. 

Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 
And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead. 
He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns, 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne'er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Romans  were, 
When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR 


ROBERT  BROWNING 

THERE  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none 

hear 

Beside  the  singer  ;  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  though  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  prais'd  far  off  him,  far  above. 
Shakspeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 
Therefore  on  him  no  speech  !  and  brief  for 

thee, 
Browning !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and 

hale, 
No  man  hath  walk'd  along  our  roads  with 

step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 
So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 
Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing  :  the 

breeze 
Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne 

on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amalfi,  where 
The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  song  for  song. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  M.  D'OSSOLI 
AND  HIS  WIFE  MARGARET 
FULLER 

OVER  his  millions  Death  has  lawful  power, 
But  over  thee,  brave  D'Ossoli  !  none,  none. 
After  a  longer  struggle,  in  a  fight 
Worthy  of  Italy,  to  youth  restor'd, 
Thou,  far  from  home,  art  sunk  beneath  the 

surge 

Of  the  Atlantic  ;  on  its  shore  ;  in  reach 
Of  help  ;    in  trust  of   refuge  ;   sunk  with 

all 
Precious  on  earth  to  thee  ...  a  child,  a 

wife  ! 

Proud  as  thou  wert  of  her,  America 
Is  prouder,  showing  to  her  sous  how  high 
Swells    woman's    courage    in    a    virtuous 

breast. 
She  would  not  leave  behind  her  those  she 

lov'd  : 

Such  solitary  safety  might  become 
Others  ;  not  her  ;  not  her  who  stood  beside 
The  pallet  of  the  wounded,  when  the  worst 
Of  France  and  Perfidy  assail'd  the  walls 
Of  unsuspicious  Rome.    Rest,  glorious  soul, 
Renown'd  for  strength  of  genius,  Margaret ! 
Rest  with  the  twain  too  dear  !     My  words 

are  few, 
And  shortly  none  will  hear  my  failing  voice, 


But  the  same  language  with  more  full  ap- 
peal 

Shall  hail  thee.    Many  are  the  sons  of  song 

Whom  thou  hast  heard  upon  thy  native 
plains 

Worthy  to  sing  of  thee  :  the  hour  is  come  ; 

Take  we  our  seats  and  let  the  dirge  begin. 


TO  IANTHE 

You  smil'd,  you  spoke,  and  I  believ'd, 
By  every  word  and  smile  deceiv'd. 
Another  man  would  hope  no  more  ; 
Nor  hope  I  what  I  hop'd  before  : 
But  let  not  this  last  wish  be  vain  ; 
Deceive,  deceive  me  once  again  ! 


lANTHE'S  TROUBLES 

YOUR  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the 

grass, 
Cut  down  and  up   again  as    blithe    as 

ever  ; 

From  you,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass 
Like  little  ripples  in  a  sunny  river. 


THE  APPEAL 

REMAIN,  ah  not  in  youth  alone, 

Though  youth,  where  you  are,  long  will 

stay, 
But  when  my  summer  days  are  gone, 

And  my  autumnal  haste  away. 

"  Can  I  be  always  by  your  side  f  " 

No  ;  but  the  hours  you  can,  you  must, 
Nor  rise  at  Death's  approaching  stride, 

Nor  go  when  dust  is  gone  to  dust. 


THE   TEST 

I  HELD  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss, 

Her  hand  that  trembled  and  withdrew  ; 
She  bent  her  head  before  my  kiss  .  .  . 

My  heart  was  sure  that  hers  was  true. 
Now  I  have  told  her  I  must  part, 

She  shakes  my  hand,  she  bids  adieu, 
Nor  shuns  the  kiss.     Alas,  my  heart  ! 

Hers  never  was  the  heart  for  you. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


IN  AFTER  TIME 

No,  my  own  love  of  other  years  ! 

No,  it  must  never  be. 
Much  rests  with  you  that  yet  endears, 

Alas  !  but  what  with  me  ? 
Could  those  bright  years  o'er  me  revolve 

So  gay,  o'er  you  so  fair, 
The  pearl  of  life  we  would  dissolve 

And  each  the  cup  might  share. 
You  show  that  truth  can  ne'er  decay, 

Whatever  fate  befalls  ; 
I,  that  the  myrtle  and  the  bay 

Shoot  fresh  on  ruin'd  walls. 


A   PROPHECY 

PROUD  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will 

speak 
Four  not  exempt  from  pride  some  future 

day. 
Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet 

cheek, 

Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say, 
"  This  man  loved  me  I "  then  rise  and 
trip  away. 


COWSLIPS 

WITH  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  press'd  down 
A  boss  of  fresh-cull'd  cowslips  in  a  rill  : 
Often  as  they  sprang  up  again,  a  frown 
Show'd  she  dislik'd  resistance  to  her  will  : 
But   when   they   droop'd  their  heads  and 

shone  much  less, 
She  shook  them  to  and  fro,  and  threw  them 

t>y» 

And  tripp'd  away.     "  Ye  loathe  the  heavi- 
ness 

Ye  love  to  cause,  my  little  girls  !  "  thought  I, 
"And  what  has  shone  for  you,  by  you  must 
die ! " 


WRINKLES 

WHEN  Helen  first  saw  wrinkles  in  her  face 
('Twas  when  some  fifty  long  had  settled 

there 

And  intermarried  and  branch'd  off  awide) 
She  threw  herself  upon  her  couch  and  wept  : 
On  this  side  hung  her  head,  and  over  that 


Listlessly  she  let  fall  the  faithless  brass 

That  made  the  men  as  faithless. 

But  when  you 

Found  them,  or  fancied  them,  and  would 
not  hear 

That  they  were  only  vestiges  of  smiles, 

Or  the  impression  of  some  amorous  hair 

Astray  from  cloister'd  curls  and   roseate 
band, 

Which  had  been  lying  there  all  night  per- 
haps 

Upon  a  skin  so  soft,  "  No,  no,"  you  said, 

"  Sure,  they  are  coming,  yes,  are  come,  are 
here  : 

Well,  and  what  matters  it,  while  thou  art 
too  ! " 

ADVICE 

To  write  as  your  sweet  mother  does 

Is  all  you  wish  to  do. 
Play,  sing,  and  smile  for  others,  Rose  ! 

Let  others  write  for  you. 

Or  mount  again  your  Dartmoor  grey, 

And  I  will  walk  beside, 
Until  we  reach  that  quiet  bay 

Which  only  hears  the  tide. 

Then  wave  at  me  your  pencil,  then 
At  distance  bid  me  stand, 

Before  the  cavern'd  cliff,  again 
The  creature  of  your  hand. 

And  bid  me  then  go  past  the  nook 
To  sketch  me  less  in  size  ; 

There  are  but  few  content  to  look 
So  little  in  your  eyes. 

Delight  us  with  the  gifts  you  have, 
And  wish  for  none  beyond  : 

To  some  be  gay,  to  some  be  grave,       • 
To  one  (blest  youth  !)  be  fond. 

Pleasures  there  are  how  close  to  Pain, 

And  better  unpossest  ! 
Let  poetry's  too  throbbing  vein 

Lie  quiet  in  your  breast. 

HOW   TO   READ   ME 

To  turn  my  volumes  o'er  nor  find 
(Sweet  unsuspicious  friend  !) 

Some  vestige  of  an  erring  mind 
To  chide  or  discommend, 


WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR 


Believe  that  all  were  lov'd  like  you 
With  love  from  blame  exempt, 

Believe  that  all  my  griefs  were  true 
And  all  my  joys  but  dreamt. 


TIME   TO  BE   WISE 

YES  ;  I  write  verses  now  and  then, 
But  blunt  and  flaccid  is  my  pen, 
No  longer  talk'd  of  by  young  men 

As  rather  clever  ; 
In  the  last  quarter  are  my  eyes, 
You  see  it  by  their  form  and  size  ; 
Is  it  not  time  then  to  be  wise  ? 

Or  now  or  never. 

Fairest  that  ever  sprang  from  Eve  ! 
While  Time  allows  the  short  reprieve, 
Just  look  at  me  !  would  you  believe 

'T  was  once  a  lover  ? 
I  cannot  clear  the  five-bar  gate  ; 
But,  trying  first  its  timber's  state, 
Climb  stiffly  up,  take  breath,  and  wait 

To  trundle  over. 

Through  gallopade  I  cannot  swing 

The  entangling  blooms  of  Beauty's  spring 

I  cannot  say  the  tender  thing, 

Be 't  true  or  false, 
And  am  beginning  to  opine 
Those  girls  are  only  half  divine 
Whose  waists  yon  wicked  boys  entwine 

In  giddy  waltz. 

I  fear  that  arm  above  that  shoulder  ; 
I  wish  them  wiser,  graver,  older, 
Sedater,  and  no  harm  if  colder, 

And  panting  less. 
Ah !  people  were  not  half  so  wild 
In  former  days,  when,  starchly  mild, 
Upon  her  high-heel'd  Essex  smil'd 

The  brave  Queen  Bess. 


THE   ONE   WHITE   HAIR 

THE  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies 

And  love  to  hear  them  told  ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listen'd  to  many  a  one,  — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew 
old. 


I  never  was  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 

But  pretty  lies  lov'd  I 
As  much  as  any  king, 
When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when  youth 
had  quite  gone  by. 

Alas  !  and  I  have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot 

When  one  pert  lady  said, 
"  O  Walter  !  I  am  quite 
Bewilder'd  with  affright  ! 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now)  a  white  hair  on  your 
head ! " 

Another  more  benign 
Snipp'd  it  away  from  mine, 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  it  was  found  .  .  . 
She  leap'd,  and  twirl'd  it  round  .  .  . 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair  ! 


ON  HIMSELF 

I  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my 

strife  ; 

Nature  I  lov'd,  and  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I  warm'd   both   hands   before  the  fire  of 

life; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 


ON    LUCRETIA   BORGIA'S   HAIR 

BORGIA,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august 

And  high  for  adoration ;  now  thou  'rt 
dust ; 

All  that  remains  of  thee  these  plaits  un- 
fold, 

Calm  hair  meandering  in  pellucid  gold. 


PERSISTENCE 

MY  hopes  retire  ;  my  wishes  as  before 
Struggle    to    find    their    resting-place    in 

vain  : 
The    ebbing   sea   thus  beats   against   the 

shore  ; 
The  shore  repels  it ;  it  returns  again. 


i6 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


MAN 

IN  his  own  image  the  Creator  made, 

His  own  pure  sunbeam  quicken'd  thee,  O 

man ! 

Thou  breathing  dial !  since  thy  day  began 
The   present   hour  was   ever  inark'd  with 
shade  ! 

TO    SLEEP 

COME,  Sleep  !  but  mind  ye !  if  you  come 

without 

The  little  girl  that  struck  me  at  the  rout, 
By  Jove  !  I  would  not  give  you  half-a-crown 
For  all  your  poppy-heads  and  all  your  down. 


ON  LIVING  TOO  LONG 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour 

In  its  calm  cell  to  rest  the  weary  head, 

While  birds  are  singing  and  while  blooms 

the  bower, 
Than  sit  the  fire  out  and  go  starv'd  to  bed? 


A   THOUGHT 

BLYTHE  bell,  that  calls  to  bridal  halls, 

Tolls  deep  a  darker  day  ; 
The  very  shower  that  feeds  the  flower 

Weeps  also  its  decay. 


HEARTSEASE 

THERE  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear, 
But  not  until  first  worn  by  you  — 

Heartsease  —  of  all   earth's   flowers  most 

rare  ; 
Bring  it ;  and  bring  enough  for  two. 


VERSES   WHY   BURNT 

How  many  verses  have  I  thrown 
Into  the  fire  because  the  one 
Peculiar  word,  the  wanted  most, 
Was  irrecoverably  lost ! 


DEATH  UNDREADED 

DEATH  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 
I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  : 

Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 
Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 


MEMORY 

THE  Mother  of  the  Muses,  we  are  taught, 
Is  Memory  :  she  has  left  me  ;  they  remain, 
And  shake  my  shoulder,  urging  me  to  sing 
About  the  summer  days,  my  loves  of  old. 
Alas  !  alas  !  is  all  I  can  reply. 
Memory  has  left  with  me  that  name  alone, 
Harmonious  name,  which  other  bards  may 


But  her  bright  image  in  my  darkest  hour 
Comes  back,  in  vain  comes  back,  call'd  or 

uncall'd. 

Forgotten  are  the  names  of  visitors 
Ready  to  press  my  hand  but  yesterday  ; 
Forgotten  are  the  names  of  earlier  friends 
Whose  genial  converse  and   glad  counte- 

nance 

Are  fresh  as  ever  to  mine  ear  and  eye  ; 
To  these,  when  I  have  written  and  besought 
Remembrance  of  me,  the  word  Dear  alone 
Hangs  on  the  upper  verge,  and  waits  in 

vain. 

A  blessing  wert  thou,  O  oblivion, 
If  thy  stream  carried  only  weeds  away, 
But  vernal  and  autumnal  flowers  alike 
It  hurries  down  to  wither  on  the  strand. 


FOR   AN   EPITAPH   AT    FIESOLE 

Lo  !  where  the  four  mimosas  blend  their 

shade 

In  calm  repose  at  last  is  Landor  laid  ; 
For   ere  he   slept    he   saw   them   planted 

here 

By  her  his  soul  had  ever  held  most  dear, 
And   he    had   liv'd   enough  when  he   had 

dried  her  tear. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


THE   FLOWER   OF   BEAUTY 

SWEET  in  her  green  dell   the   flower  of 

beauty  slumbers, 
Lull'd    by    the    faint    breezes     sighing 

through  her  hajr  ; 
Sleeps  she,  and  hears  not  the  melancholy 

numbers 

Breath'd  to  my  sad  lute  amid  the  lonely 
air. 

Down   from  the  high   cliffs  the  rivulet  is 

teeming, 
To  wind  round  the  willow-banks  that  lure 

him  from  above  ; 
O    that,  in   tears   from   my   rocky   prison 

streaming, 
I,  too,  could  glide  to  the  bower  of  my  love  ! 

Ah,  where  the  woodbines  with  sleepy  arms 

have  wound  her, 
Opes  she  her  eyelids  at  the  dream  of  my 

!ay> 
Listening,  like  the  dove,  while  the  fountains 

echo  round  her, 

To  her  lost  mate's  call  in  the  forests  far 
away. 

Come,  then,  my  bird !  for  the  peace  thou 

ever  bearest, 
Still  Heaven's  messenger  of  comfort  to 

me  ; 
Come  !  this   fond  bosom,  my   faithfullest, 

my  fairest, 

Bleeds  with  its  death-wound— but  deeper 
yet  for  thee. 

SUMMER   WINDS 

UP  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 
O'er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly  ; 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 
Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy-fringed  river 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep, 
Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 
At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 


While  aside  her  cheek  we  're  rushing, 
Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 

Kissing  every  bud  we  pass,  — 
As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 
O'er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain 
Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 
While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh  ; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 
Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 
Till  we  're  at  our  play  again. 

SONGS  FROM  "SYLVIA;  OR,  THE 
MAY  QUEEN" 


CHORUS   OF  SPIRITS 

GENTLY  !  —  gently  !  —  down  !  —  down  ! 

From  the  starry  courts  on  high, 
Gently  step  adown,  down 

The  ladder  of  the  sky. 

Sunbeam  steps  are  strong  enough 

For  such  airy  feet : 
Spirits,  blow  your  trumpets  rough, 

So  as  they  be  sweet  ! 

Breathe  them  loud,  the  Queen  descending. 

Yet  a  lowly  welcome  breathe, 
Like  so  many  flowerets  bending 

Zephyr's  breezy  foot  beneath. 

II 
MORNING-SONG 

AWAKE  thee,  my  Lady-love  ! 

Wake  thee,  and  rise  ! 
The  sun  through  the  bower  peeps 

Into  thine  eyes ! 


i8 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Behold  how  the  early  lark 
Springs  from  the  corn  ! 

Hark,  hark  how  the  -flower-bird 
Winds  her  wee  horn  ! 

The  swallow's  glad  shriek  is  heard 

All  through  the  air  ; 
The  stock-dove  is  murmuring 

Loud  as  she  dare. 

Apollo's  wing'd  bugleman 

Cannot  contain, 
But  peals  his  loud  trumpet-call 

Once  and  again. 

Then  wake  thee,  my  Lady-love  J 

Bird  of  my  bower  ! 
The  sweetest  and  sleepiest 

Bird  at  this  hour  1 

III 
NEPHON'S  SONG 

LADY  and  gentlemen  fays,  come  buy  ! 
No  pedlar  has  such  a  rich  packet  as  I. 

Who  wants  a  gown 

Of  purple  fold, 
Embroider'd  down 

The  seams  with  gold  ? 

See  here  !  —  a  Tulip  richly  laced 
To  please  a  royal  fairy's  taste  ! 

Who  wants  a  cap 
Of  crimson  grand  ? 


By  great  good  hap 
I 'A 


ve  one  on  hand  : 

Look,  sir  !  —  a  Cock's-comb,  flowering 

red, 
'T  is  just  the  thing,  sir,  for  your  head  ! 

Who  wants  a  frock 

Of  vestal  hue  ? 
Or  snowy  smock  ?  — 
Fair  maid,  do  you  ? 

O  me  !  —  a  Ladysmock  so  white  ! 
Your  bosom's  self  is  not  more  bright. 

Who  wants  to  sport 

A  slender  limb  ? 
I  've  every  sort 
Of  hose  for  him  : 

Both  scarlet,  striped,  and  yellow  ones  : 
This  Woodbine  makes  such  pantaloons ! 


Who  wants  —  (hush  !   hush  !) 

A  box  of  paint  ? 
'T  will  give  a  blush 
Yet  leave  no  taint : 

This  rose  with  natural  rouge  is  fill'd, 
From  its  own  dewy  leaves  distill'd. 

Then    lady    and    gentlemen    fays,    come 

buy! 
You   never  will    meet    such  a  merchant 

as  I! 


IV 


ROMANZO  TO  SYLVIA 

I'VE  taught  thee   Love's  sweet  lesson 

o'er, 
A  task  that  is  not  learn'd  with  tears  : 

Was  Sylvia  e'er  so  blest  before 
In  her  wild,  solitary  years  ? 

Then    what     does     be     deserve,    the 

Youth, 
Who  made  her  con  so  dear  a  truth  ! 

Till  now  in  silent  vales  to  roam, 
Singing  vain  songs  to  heedless  flowers, 
Or  watch  the  dashing  billows  foam, 
Amid  thy  lonely  myrtle  bowers, 

To   weave    light    crowns    of    various 

hue,  — 
Were  all  the  joys  thy  bosom  knew. 

The  wild  bird,  though  most  musical, 
Could  not  to  thy  sweet  plaint  reply  ; 

The  streamlet  and  the  waterfall 
Could  only  weep  when  thou  didst  sigh  ! 
Thou  couldst   not   change  one  dulcet 

word 
Either  with  billow,  or  with  bird. 

For  leaves  and  flowers,  but  these  alone, 
Winds  have  a  soft  discoursing  way  ; 

Heav'n's  starry  talk  is  all  its  own,  — 
It  dies  in  thunder  far  away. 

E'en   when   thou   wouldst   the    Moon 

beguile 
To  speak,  —  she  only  deigns  to  smile  ! 

Now,  birds  and  winds,  be  churlish  still, 
Ye  waters  keep  your  sullen  roar, 

Stars  be  as  distant  as  ye  will,  — 
Sylvia  need  court  ye  now  no  more  : 
In  Love  there  is  society 
She  never  yet  could  find  with  ye  ! 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


2£>rpan  leaflet 

("BARRY  CORNWALL") 


THE   SEA 

THE  sea  !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 

Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round  ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies  ; 

Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I  'm  on  the  sea  !  I  'm  on  the  sea  ! 

I  am  where  I  would  ever  be  ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 

And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go  ; 

If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 

What  matter  ?  /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  O,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  lov'd  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest  ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me  ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea  ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born  ; 

And   the  whale   it  whistled,  the   porpoise 

roll'd, 

And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcom'd  to  life  the  ocean-child  ! 

I  Ve  liv'd  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But   never    have    sought   nor   sighed    for 

change  ; 

And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea  ! 

THE   HUNTER'S    SONG 

RISE  !    Sleep  no  more  !  'T  is  a  noble  morn  : 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 


And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a  beaten 

hound, 

Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground. 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky  ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady.  —  So,  ho  f 
I  'm  gone,  like  a  dart  from  the  Tartar's  bow. 
Hark,  hark  !  —  Who  calleth  the  maiden 

Morn 

From   her  sleep  in  the  woods  and   the 
stubble  corn  f 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  I 
The  merry,  sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn, 

Now,  thorough  the  copse,  where  the  fox  is 

found, 

And  over  the  stream,  at  a  mighty  bound, 
And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low, 
O'er  furrows,  o'er  meadows,  the  hunters  go  ! 
Away  !  —  as  a  hawk  flies  full  at  its  prey, 
So  flieth  the  hunter,  away,  —  away  ! 
From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and  —  the  day  is 

done  ! 
Hark,  hark  !  —  What  sound  on  the  wind 

is  borne? 

'T  is  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter's 
horn. 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ( 
The  merry,  bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 

Sound  !     Sound  the  horn  !     To  the  hunter 

good 

What's  the  gulley  deep  or  the  roaring  flood? 
Right  over   he   bounds,  as   the  wild   stag 

bounds, 

At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
O,  what  delight  can  a  mortal  lack, 
When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse's  back, 
With   his   stirrups   short,  and   his   snaffle 

strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning 

song? 
Hark,  hark  !  —  Now,  home  !  and  dream 

till  morn 

Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter' 'f 
horn  ! 

The  horn,  —  the  horn  ! 
O,  the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter** 
horn  ! 


20 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  't  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours. 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loth, 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  —  a  sof t  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known  ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget ; — 

All  else  is  flown  ! 

Ah  !  —  With  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  Spring  I 
With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  I  owe 

To  thee  and  Time  ! 


THE   STORMY   PETREL 

A  THOUSAND  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea  ; 
From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 
Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast  : 
The  sails  are  scatter'd  abroad,  like  weeds, 
The   strong   masts    shake   like    quivering 

reeds, 

The  mighty  cables,  and  iron  chains, 
The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, 
They  strain  and  they  crack,  and  hearts  like 

stone 
Their  natural  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !     Up  and  down  ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's 

crown, 

And  midst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 
The  Stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home,  — 
A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be, 
For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 
On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 
And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 


To  warm   her  young,  and   to  teach  them 

spring 
At    once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy 

wing. 

O'er  the  Deep  !     O'er  the  Deep  ! 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the 

sword-fish  sleep, 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  un- 
heard ! 

Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet,  of  good  or  ill, 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth 

still : 

Yet  he  ne'er  falters  :  —  So,  Petrel !  spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy 
wing ! 


PEACE  !  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL? 

PEACE  !  what  do  tears  avail  ? 
She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading, 

And  she  must  die  ! 

Why  looks  the  lover  wroth  ?  the  friend  up* 
braiding  ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
'Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong  ? 

Then,  why  not  die  ? 
Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 

Why  nurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to- 
morrow ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Death  !     Take  her  to  thine  arms, 
In  all  her  stainless  charms, 

And  with  her  fly 

To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  bright- 
ness, 

The  Angels  lie. 
Wilt  bear  her  there,  O  Death !  in  all  hei 

whiteness  ? 
Reply,  reply  ! 

LIFE 

WE  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep  ; 
We  love  ;  we  droop  ;  we  die  ! 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER 


21 


Ah  !  wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live,  or  die  ? 
Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I  ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 

Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 
Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 

Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 

To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil,  —  through  pain  and  wrong  ; 

We  fight,— and  fly; 
We  love  ;  we  lose  ;  and  then,  ere  long, 

Stone-dead  we  lie. 
O  life  !  is  all  thy  song 

"  Endure  and  —  die  "  ? 

THE    BLOOD    HORSE 

GAMARRA  is  a  dainty  steed, 
Strong,  black,  and  of  a  noble  breed, 
Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 
With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known  ; 
Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 
But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within  t 
His  mane  is  like  a  river  flowing, 
And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look,  —  how  'round  his  straining  throat 

Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float ! 

Sinewy  strength  is  on  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins  ; 

Richer,  redder,  never  ran 

Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 

Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire,  — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O'Brien's  blood  itself  ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born 

Here,  upon  a  red  March  morn  : 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 

Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 

Trod  like  one  of  a  race  divine  ! 

And  yet,  —  he  was  but  friend  to  one 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green  : 

With  him,  a  roving  Bedouin, 

He  liv'd,  —  (none  else  would  he  obey 

Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day,)  — 


And  died  untam'd  upon  the  sands 
Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands  ! 


SIT   DOWN,  SAD    SOUL 

SIT  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 

The  moments  flying  : 
Come,  —  tell  the  sweet  amount 

That  's  lost  by  sighing  ! 
How  many  smiles  ?  —  a  score  ? 
Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more  ; 
For  day  is  dying. 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 

And  no  more  measure 
The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 

The  loss  of  leisure  ; 
But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 
Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure. 

We  dream  :  do  thou  the  same  : 

We  love  —  for  ever  ; 
We  laugh  ;  yet  few  we  shame, 

The  gentle,  never. 
Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies  ; 
Then  —  hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever  ! 

GOLDEN-TRESSED    ADELAIDE 

SING,  I  pray,  a  little  song, 

Mother  dear  ! 
Neither  sad  nor  very  long  : 
It  is  for  a  little  maid, 
Golden-tressed  Adelaide  ! 
Therefore  let  it  suit  a  merry,  merry  ear, 

Mother  dear  ! 


Let  it  be  a  merry  strain, 

Mother  dear  ! 

Shunning  e'en  the  thought  of  pain  : 
For  our  gentle  child  will  weep, 
If  the  theme  be  dark  and  deep  ; 
And  we  will  not  draw  a  single,  single 

Mother  dear  ! 


Childhood  should  be  all  divine, 

Mother  dear  ! 

And  like  an  endless  summer  shine  ; 
Gay  as  Edward's  shouts  and  cries, 
Bright  as  Agnes'  azure  eyes  : 
Therefore,  bid  thy  song  be  merry  :  —  dost 
thou  hear, 

Mother  dear  ? 


22 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


A   POET'S   THOUGHT 

TELL  me,  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ? 

Is  it  on  the  sudden  born  ? 
Is  it  from  the  starlight  caught  ? 
Is  it  by  the  tempest  taught, 

Or  by  whispering  morn  ? 

Was  it  cradled  in  the  brain  ? 

Chain'd  awhile,  or  nurs'd  in  night  ? 
Was  it  wrought  with  toil  and  pain  ? 
Did  it  bloom  and  fade  again, 

Ere  it  burst  to  light  ? 

No  more  question  of  its  birth  : 

Rather  love  its  better  part ! 

'T  is  a  thing  of  sky  and  earth, 

Gathering  all  its  golden  worth 

From  the  Poet's  heart. 


A   PETITION    TO   TIME 

TOUCH  us  gently,  Time  ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  —  as  we  sometimes  glide 

Through  a  quiet  dream. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three  — 
(One  is  lost,  —  an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead.) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We  've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  We, 
O'er  Life's  dim,  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ;  — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time  ! 


FROM   "JOSEPH   AND   HIS 
BRETHREN " 

RACHEL 

RACHEL,  the  beautiful  (as  she  was  call'd), 
Despis'd  our  mother  Leah,  for  that  she 
Was  tender-ey'd,  lean-favor'd,  and  did  lack 
The  pulpy  ripeness  swelling  the  white  skin 
To  sleek  proportions  beautiful  and  round, 
With  wrinkled  joints  so  fruitful  to  the  eye. 
All  this  is  fair  :  and  yet  we  know  it  true 
That  'neath  a  pomane  breast  and  snowy  side 
A  heart  of  guile  and  falsehood  may  be  hid, 
As  well  as  where  the  soil  is  deeper  tinct. 
So  here  with  this  same  Rachel  was  it  found  : 
The  dim  blue-laced  veins  on  either  brow, 
Neath  the  transparent  skin  meandering, 
That  with  the  silver-leaved  lily  vied  ; 
Her  full  dark  eye,  whose  brightness  glis- 

ten'd  through 

The  sable  lashes  soft  as  camel-hair  ; 
Her  slanting  head  curv'd  like  the  maiden 

moon 

And  hung  with  hair  luxuriant  as  a  vine 
And  blacker  than  a  storm  ;  her  rounded  ear 
Turn'd  like  a  shell  upon  some  golden  shore  ; 
Her  whispering  foot  that  carried  all  her 

weight, 


Nor  left  its  little  pressure  on  the  sand  ; 
Her  lips  as  drowsy  poppies,  soft  and  red, 
Gathering  a  dew  from  her  escaping  breath  ; 
Her   voice  melodious,   mellow,  deep,  and 

clear, 

Lingering  like  sweet  music  in  the  ear  ; 
Her  neck  o'ersoften'd  like  to  unsunu'd  curd; 
Her  tapering  fingers  rounded  to  a  point ; 
The  silken  softness  of  her  veined  hand  ; 
Her  dimpled  knuckles  answering   to   her 

chin  ; 

And  teeth  like  honeycombs  o'  the  wilder- 
ness : 

All  these  did  tend  to  a  bad  proof  in  her. 
For  armed  thus  in  beauty  she  did  steal 
The  eye  of  Jacob  to  her  proper  self, 
Engross'd  his  time,  and  kept  him  by  her 

side, 

Casting  on  Leah  indifference  and  neglect ; 
Whereat  great  Heaven  took  our  mother's 

part 

And  struck  young  Rachel  with  a  barrenness, 
While  she  bore  children  :  thua  the  matter 

went ; 

Till  Rachel,  feeling  guilty  of  her  fault, 
Turn'd  to  some  penitence,  which  Heaven 

heard  ; 
And  then  she  bore  this  Joseph,  who  must, 

and  does, 


CHARLES  JEREMIAH  WELLS 


Inherit  towards  the  children  all  the  pride 
And   scorn   his   mother   had   towards  our 

mother  : 
Wherefore  he  suffers  in  our  just  rebuke. 

PHRAXANOR   TO  JOSEPH 

Phrax.     Oh  !  ignorant  boy,  it  is  the  secret 

hour, 
The  sun  of  love  doth  shine  most  goodly 

fair. 

Contemptible  darkness  never  yet  did  dull 
The  splendor  of  love's  palpitating  light. 
At  love's  slight  curtains,  that  are  made  of 

sighs, 

Though  e'er  so  dark,  silence  is  seen  to  stand 
Like  to  a  flower  closed  in  the  night  ; 
Or,  like  a  lovely  image  drooping  down 
With  its  fair  head  aslant  and  finger  rais'd, 
And  mutely  on  its  shoulder  slumbering. 
Pulses  do  sound  quick  music  in  Love's  ear, 
And  blended  fragrance  in  his  startled  breath 
Doth  hang  the  hair  with  drops  of  magic  dew. 
All  outward  thoughts,  all  common  circum- 
stance, 

Are  buried  in  the  dimple  of  his  smile  : 
And  the  great  city  like  a  vision  sails 
From  out  the  closing  doors  of  the  hush'd 

mind. 

His  heart  strikes  audibly  against  his  ribs 
As  a  dove's  wing  doth  freak  upon  a  cage, 
Forcing  the  blood  athro'  the  cramped  veins 
Faster  than  dolphins  do  o'ershoot  the  tide 
Cours'd  by  the  yawning  shark.     Therefore 

I  say 
Night-blooming  Cereus,  and  the  star-flower 

sweet, 

The  honeysuckle,  and  the  eglantine, 
And  the  ring'd  vinous  tree  that  yields  red 

wine, 

Together  with  all  intertwining  flowers, 
Are  plants  most  fit  to  ramble  o'er  each 

other, 

And  form  the  bower  of  all-precious  Love, 
Shrouding  the  sun  with  fragrant  bloom  and 

leaves 

From  jealous  interception  of  Love's  gaze. 
This  is  Love's  cabin  in  the  light  of  day, 
But   oh  !   compare   it  not  with  the  black 

night; 

Delay  thou  sun,  and  give  me  instant  night  — 
Its  soft,  mysterious,  and  secret  hours  ; 
The  whitest  clouds  are  pillows   to  bright 

stars, 
All !  therefore  shroud  thine  eyes. 


THE   PATRIARCHAL   HOME 

Joseph.     Still   I   am  patient,   tho'  you're 

merciless. 

Yet  to  speak  out  my  mind,  I  do  avouch 
There  is  no  city  feast,  nor  city  show, 
The  encampment  of  the  king  and  soldiery. 
Rejoicings,  revelries,  and  victories, 
Can  equal  the  remembrance  of  my  home 
In  visible  imagination. 
Even  as  he  was  I  see  my  father  now, 
His  grave  and  graceful  head's  benignity 
Musing  beyond  the  confines  of  this  world, 
His  world  within  with  all  its  mysteries. 
What  pompless  majesty  was  in  his  mien, 
An  image  of  integrity  creates, 
Pattern  of  nature,  in  perfection. 
Lo  !  in  the  morning  when  we  issued  forth, 
The  patriarch  surrounded  by  his  sons, 
Girt  round  with  looks  of  sweet  obedience, 
Each  struggling  who  should  honor  him  the 

most ; 
While   from  the  wrinkles  deep  of  many 

years, 

Enfurrow'd  smiles,  like  violets  in  snow, 
Touch'd  us  with  heat  and  melancholy  cold, 
Mingling  our  joy  with  sorrow  for  his  age  : 
There  were  my  brothers,  habited  in  skins  ; 
Ten  goodly  men,  myself,  and  a  sweet  youth 
Too  young  to  mix  in  anything  but  joy  ; 
And  in  his  hands   each  led  a  milk-white 

steer, 

Hung  o'er  with  roses,  garlanded  with  flow- 
ers, 
Laden   with   fragrant   panniers   of    green 

boughs 

Of  bays  and  myrtle  interleav'd  with  herbs, 
Wherein  was  stor'd  our  country  wine  and 

fruit, 
And  bread  with  honey  sweeten'd,  and  dried 

figs, 

And  pressed  curds,  and  choicest  rarities, 
Stores  of  the  cheerless  season  of  the  year  \ 
While  at  our  sides  the  women  of  our  tribe,. 
With  pitchers  on  their  heads,  fill'd  to  the 

brim 
With  wine,  and  honey,  and  with  smoking 

milk, 
Made  proud  the  black-ey'd  heifers  with  the 

swell 

Of  the  sweet  anthem  sung  in  plenty's  praise. 
Thus  would  we  journey  to  the  wilderness, 
And  fixing  on  some  peak  that  did  o'erlook 
The  spacious  plains  that  lay  display'd  be- 
neath, 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Where  we  could  see  our  cattle,  like  to  specks 
In   the  warm   meads,  browsing   the   juicy 

grass, 
There  pitch  our  tent,  and  feast,  and  revel 

out,  — 

The  minutes  flying  faster  than  our  feet 
That  vaulted  nimbly  to  the  pipe  and  voice, 
Making  fatigue  more  sweet  by  appetite. 
There  stood  the  graceful  Reuben  by  my 

sire, 

Piping  a  ditty,  ardent  as  the  sun, 
And,  like  him,  stealing  renovation 
Into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  soul, 
And  filling  it  with  light.     There,  women 

group'd, 

My  sisters  and  their  maids,  with  ears  sub- 
dued, 

With  bosoms  panting  from  the  eager  dance, 
Against  each  other  lean'd  ;  as  I  have  seen 
A  graceful  tuft  of  lilies  of  the  vale 
Oppress'd  with  rain,  upon  each  other  bend, 
While  freshness  has  stol'n  o'er  them.    Some 

way  off 
My  brothers  pitch'd  the  bar,  or  plough'd  for 

fame, 
Each  two  with  their  two  heifers  harness'd 

fast 

Unto  the  shaft,  and  labor'd  till  the  sweat 
Had  crept  about  them  like  a  sudden  thaw. 
Anon  they  tied  an  eagle  to  a  tree, 
And  strove  at  archery  ;  or  with  a  bear 
Struggled  for  strength   of  limb.      These 

were  no  slaves  — 

No  villain's  sons  to  rifle  passengers. 
The  sports  being  done,  the  winners  claim'd 

the  spoil  : 

Or  hide,  or  feather,  or  renowned  bow, 
Or  spotted  cow,  or  fleet  and  pamper'd  horse. 
And  then  my  father  bless'd  us,  and  we  sang 
Our  sweet  way  home  again.     Oft  I  have 

ach'd 

In  memory  of  these  so  precious  hours, 
And  wept  upon  those  keys  that  were  my 

pride, 

And  soak'd  my  pillow  thro'  the  heavy  night. 
Alas  !     God  willing,  I  '11  be  patient  yet. 

THE  TRIUMPH   OF  JOSEPH 

In  the  royal  path 
Came  maidens  rob'd  in  white,  enchain'd  in 

flowers, 
Sweeping  the  ground  with  incense-scented 

palms  : 
Then  came  the  sweetest  voices  of  the  land, 


And  cried,  '.  Bow  y«  the  knee  I '  —  and  then 

aloud 

Clarions  and  trumpets  broke  forth  in  the  air: 
After  a  multitude  of  men-at-arms, 
Of  priests,  of  officers,  and  horsed  chiefs, 
Came  the  benignant  Pharaoh,  whose  great 

pride 

Was  buried  in  his  smile.    I  did  but  glimpse 
His  car,  for  't  was  of  burnish'd  gold.     No 

eye 

Save  that  of  eagles  could  confront  the  blaze 
That  seem'd  to  burn  the  air,  unless  it  fell 
Either  on  sapphire  or  carbuncle  huge 
That  riveted  the  weight.      This  car  was 

drawn 

By  twelve  jet  horses,  being  four  abreast, 
And  pied  in  their  own  foam.     Within  the 

car 
Sat    Pharaoh,  whose   bare   head   was   girt 

around 

By  a  crown  of  iron  ;  and  his  sable  hair, 
Like  strakey  as  a  mane,  fell  where  it  would, 
And  somewhat  hid  his  glossy  sun-brent  neck 
And  carcanet  of  precious  sardonyx. 
His  jewell'd  armlets,  weighty  as  a  sword, 
Clasp'd  his  brown  naked  arms  —  a  crimson 

robe, 
Deep  edged  with  silver,  and  with  golden 

thread, 

Upon  a  bear-skin  kirtle  deeply  blush'd, 
Whose  broad  resplendent  braid  and  shield- 
like  clasps 
Were  boss'd  with  diamonds  large,  by  rubies 

fir'd, 

Like  beauty's  eye  in  rage,  or  roses  white 
Lit  by  the  glowing  red.     Beside  him  lay 
A  bunch  of  poppied  corn  ;  and  at  his  feet 
A  tamed  lion  as  his  footstool  crouch'd. 
Cas'd  o'er  in  burnish'd  plates  I,  hors'd,  did 

bear 

A  snow-white  eagle  on  a  silver  shaft, 
From  whence  great  Pharaoh's  royal  banner 

stream'd, 

An  emblem  of  his  might  and  dignity  ; 
And  as  the  minstrelsy  burst  clanging  forth, 
With  shouts  that  broke  like  thunder  from 

the  host, 

The  royal  bird  with  kindred  pride  of  power 
Flew  up  the  measure  of  his  silken  cord, 
And  arch'd  his  cloud-like  wings  as  he  would 

mount, 

And  babble  of  this  glory  to  the  sun. 
Then  follow'd  Joseph  in  a  silver  car, 
Drawn  by  eight  horses,  white  as  evening 

clouds  : 


SIR   HENRY   TAYLOR 


His  feet  were  resting  upon  Pharaoh's  sword; 
And  on  his  head  a  crown  of  drooping  corn 
Mock'd  that  of  Ceres  in  high  holiday. 
His  robes  were  simple,  but  were  full  of 

grace, 
And  (out  of  love  and  truth  I  speak  him 

thus) 


I  never  did  behold  a  man  less  proud, 
More  dignified  or  grateful  to  admire. 
His  honors  nothing  teas'd  him  from  him 

self; 

And  he  but  fill'd  his  fortunes  like  a  man 
Who  did  intend  to  honor  them  as  much 
As  they  could  honor  him- 


FROM  "PHILIP  VAN  ARTE- 
VELDE" 

JOHN    OF    LAUNOY 

I  NEVER  look'd  that  he  should  live  so  long. 
He  was  a  man  of  that  unsleeping  spirit, 
He  seem'd  to  live  by  miracle  :  his  food 
Was  glory,  which  was  poison  to  his  mind 
And  peril  to  his  body.     He  was  one 
Of  many  thousand  such  that  die  betimes, 
Whose  story  is  a  fragment,  known  to  few. 
Then  comes  the  man  who  has  the  luck  to  live, 
And  he  's  a  prodigy.     Compute  the  chances, 
And  deem  there  's  ne'er  a  one  in  dangerous 

times 

Who  wins  the  race  of  glory,  but  than  him 
A  thousand  men  more  gloriously  endow'd 
Have  fallen  upon  the  course  ;  a  thousand 

others 
Have  had  their  fortunes  founder'd   by  a 

chance, 
Whilst  lighter  barks  push'd  past  them  ;  to 

whom  add 

A  smaller  tally,  of  the  singular  few 
Who,  gifted  with  predominating  powers, 
Bear  yet  a  temperate  will  and  keep  the 

peace. 
The  world  knows  nothing  of  its  greatest 

men. 

REVOLUTIONS 

There  was  a  time,  so  ancient  records  tell, 
There  were  communities,  scarce  known  by 

name 
In  these   degenerate  days,  but  once  far- 

fam'd, 

Where  liberty  and  justice,  hand  in  hand, 
Order'd  the  common  weal ;  where  great 

men  grew 


Up  to  their  natural  eminence,  and  none, 
Saving  the  wise,  just,  eloquent,  were  great  ; 
Where  power  was  of  God's  gift,  to  whom 

he  gave 

Supremacy  of  merit,  the  sole  means 
And  broad   highway  to  power,  that  ever 

then 

Was  meritoriously  administer'd, 
Whilst  all  its  instruments  from  first  to  last, 
The  tools  of  state  for  service  high  or  low, 
Were  chosen  for  their  aptness  to  those  ends 
Which  virtue  meditates.       To  shake    the 

ground 
Deep-founded    whereupon    this    structure 

stood, 

Was  verily  a  crime  ;  a  treason  it  was, 
Conspiracies  to  batch  against  this  state 
And  its  free  innocence.     But  now,  I  ask, 
Where  is  there  on  God's  earth  that  polity 
Which  it  is  not,  by  consequence  converse, 
A  treason  against  nature  to  uphold  ? 
Whom  may  we  now  call  free  ?  whom  great? 

whom  wise  ? 

Whom  innocent  ?  the  free  are  only  they 
Whom  power  makes  free  to  execute  all  ills 
Their  hearts  imagine  ;  they  alone  are  great 
Whose  passions  nurse  them  from  their  cra- 
dles up 

In  luxury  and  lewdness,  —  whom  to  see 
Is  to  despise,  whose  aspects  put  to  scorn 
Their  station's  eminence  ;  the  wise,  they 

only 

Who  wait  obscurely  till  the  bolts  of  heaven 
Shall  break  upon  the  land,  and  give  them 

light 

Whereby  to  walk  ;  the  innocent,  —  alas  ! 
Poor  innocency  lies  where  four  roads  meet, 
A    stone  upon    her  head,  a  stake    driven 

through  her, 

For  who  is  innocent  that  cares  to  live  ? 
The  hand  of  power  doth  press  the  very  life 
Of  innocency  out  !     What  then  remains 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


But  in  the  canse  of  nature  to  stand  forth, 
And  turn  this  frame  of  things  the  right  side 

up? 
For  this  the   hour  is  come,  the   sword   is 

drawn, 
And  tell  your  masters  vainly  they  resist. 

SONG 

Down  lay  in  a  nook  my  lady's  brach, 
And  said  —  my  feet  are  sore, 

I  cannot  follow  with  the  pack 
A  hunting  of  the  boar. 

And  though  the  horn  sounds  never  so  clear 
With  the  hounds  in  loud  uproar, 

Tet  I  must  stop  and  lie  down  here, 
Because  my  feet  are  sore. 

The  huntsman  when  he  heard  the  same, 

What  answer  did  he  give  ? 
The  dog  that 's  lame  is  much  to  blame, 

He  is  not  fit  to  live. 

SONG 

Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  heart  of  neither  wife  nor  maid, 

Lead  we  not  here  a  jolly  life 

Betwixt  the  shine  and  shade  ? 

Quoth  heart  of  neither  maid  nor  wife 
To  tongue  of  neither  wife  nor  maid, 

Thou  wag'st,  but  I  am  worn  with  strife, 
And  feel  like  flowers  that  fade. 

PHILIP   VAN   ARTEVELDE 

Dire  rebel  though  he  was, 
Yet  with  a  noble  nature  and  great  gifts 
Was    he    endow'd,  —  courage,    discretion, 

wit, 

An  equal  temper,  and  an  ample  soul, 
Rock-bound  and  fortified  against  assaults 
Of  transitory  passion,  but  below 
Built  on  a  surging  subterranean  fire 
That  stirr'd  and  lifted  him  to  high  attempts. 
SQ  prompt  and  capable,  and  yet  so  calm, 
He  nothing  lack'd  in  sovereignty  but  the 

.  right, 

Nothing  in  soldiership  except  good  fortune. 
Wherefore  with  honor  lay  him  in  his  grave, 
And  thereby  shall  increase  of  honor  come 
Unto  their  arms  who  vanquish'd  one  so  wise, 
So  valiant,  so  renown'd. 


FROM   "EDWIN   THE   FAIR" 

THE    WIND    IN    THE    PINES 

THE  tale  was  this  : 

The  wind,  when    first  he    rose    and  went 

abroad 
Through  the  waste  region,  felt  himself  at 

fault, 

Wanting  a  voice  ;  and  suddenly  to  earth 
Descended  with  a  wafture  and  a  swoop, 
Where,  wandering  volatile  from  kind  to 

kind, 

He  woo'd  the  several  trees  to  give  him  one. 
First  he  besought  the  ash  ;  the  voice  she  lent 
Fitfully  with  a  free  and  lashing  change 
Flung  here  and  there  its  sad  uncertainties  : 
The  aspen  next ;  a  flutter'd  frivolous  twit- 
ter 

Was  her  sole  tribute  :  from  the  willow  came, 
So  long  as  dainty  summer  dress'd  her  out, 
A  whispering  sweetness,  but  her  winter  note 
Was  hissing,  dry,  and  reedy  :  lastly  the  pine 
Did  he  solicit,  and  from  her  he  drew 
A  voice  so  constant,  soft,  and  lowly  deep, 
That  there  he  rested,  welcoming  in  her 
A  mild  memorial  of  the  ocean-cave 
Where  he  was  born. 


A   CHARACTERIZATION 

His  life  was  private  ;  safely  led,  aloof 
From  the  loud  world,  —  which  yet  he  under- 
stood 

Largely  and  wisely,  as  no  worldling  could. 
For  he,  by  privilege  of  his  nature  proof 
Against  false  glitter,  from  beneath  the  roof 
Of  privacy,  as  from  a  cave,  survey'd 
With  steadfast  eye  its  flickering  light  and 

shade, 

And  gently  judged  for  evil  and  for  good. 
But  whilst  he  mix'd  not  for  his  own  behoof 
In  public  strife,  his  spirit  glow'd  with  zeal. 
Not  shorn  of  action,  for  the  public  weal,  — 
For  truth  and  justice  as  its  warp  and  woof. 
For  freedom  as  its  signature  and  seal. 
His  life,  thus  sacred  from  the  world,  dis- 
charged 

From  vain  ambition  and  inordinate  care, 
In  virtue  exercis'd,  by  reverence  rare 
Lifted,  and  by  humility  enlarged, 
Became  a  temple  and  a  place  of  prayer. 
In  latter  years  he  walk'd  not  singly  there  j 


LORD   MACAULAY 


27 


For  one  was  with  him,  ready  at  all  hours 
His  griefs,  his  joys,  his  inmost  thoughts  to 

share, 

Who  buoyantly  his  burthens  help'd  to  bear, 
And  deck'd  his  altars  daily  with  fresh  flow- 
ers. 
Lines  on  the  Hon.  Edward  Ernest  Villiers. 

ARETINA'S    SONG 

I  'M  a  bird  that 's  free 
Of  the  land  and  sea, 

I  wander  whither  I  will  ; 
But  oft  on  the  wing, 
I  falter  and  sing, 

Oh,  fluttering  heart,  be  still, 
Be  still, 

Oh,  fluttering  heart,  be  still  I 

I  'm  wild  as  the  wind, 
But  soft  and  kind, 

And  wander  whither  I  may  ; 
The  eyebright  sighs, 
And  says  with  its  eyes, 

Thou  wandering  wind,  oh  stay, 

Oh  stay, 
Thou  wandering  wind,  oh  stay  ! 

A  Sicilian  Summer. 

THE    HERO 

WHAT  makes  a  hero  ?  —  not  success,  not 

fame, 
Inebriate  merchants,  and  the  loud  acclaim 


Of  glutted  Avarice,  —  caps  toss'd  up  in 

air, 

Or  pen  of  journalist  with  flourish  fair  ; 
Bells  peal'd,  stars,   ribbons,  and  a  titular 

name  — 
These,  though  his  rightful  tribute,  he  can 

spare ; 

His  rightful  tribute,  not  his  end  or  aim, 
Or  true  reward  ;  for  never  yet  did  these 
Refresh  the   soul,  or   set   the   heart   at 

ease. 

What  makes  a  hero  ?  —  An  heroic  mind, 
Express'd  in  action,  in  endurance  prov'd. 
And  if  there  be  preeminence  of  right, 
Deriv'd  through  pain  well  suffer'd,  to  the 

height 

Of  rank  heroic,  't  is  to  bear  unmov'd, 
Not    toil,   not   risk,   not   rage   of    sea   or 

wind, 

Not  the  brute  fury  of  barbarians  blind, 
But  worse  —  ingratitude  and  poisonous 

darts, 
Launch'd  by  the  country  he  had  serv'd 

and  lov'd  : 

This,  with  a  free,  unclouded  spirit  pure, 
This,  in  the  strength  of  silence  to  endure, 
A  dignity  to  noble  deeds  imparts 
Beyond  the  gauds  and  trappings  of  re- 
nown ; 

This  is  the  hero's  complement  and  crown  ; 
This  miss'd,  one  struggle  had  been  want- 
ing still, 

One  glorious  triumph  of  the  heroic  will, 
One  self-approval  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 


(THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY) 


THE  BATTLE  OF  NASEBY 


BY   OBADIAH-  BIND  -THEIR  -KINGS  -IN  - 

CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH- 

LINKS-OF-IRON,  SERGEANT  IN 

IRETON'S  REGIMENT 


OH  !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph 

from  the  north, 
With  your  hands,  and  your  feet,  and  your 

raiment  all  red  ? 


And  wherefore  doth  your  rout  send  forth  a 

joyous  shout  ? 
And  whence  -be  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press 

that  ye  tread  ? 

Oh  !  evil  was  the  root,  and  bitter  was  the 

fruit, 
And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage 

that  we  trod  ; 
For  we   trampled  on   the  throng   of  the 

haughty  and  the  strong, 
Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the 

saints  of  God. 


28 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


It  was  about  the  noon  of  a  glorious  day  of 
June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their 
cuirasses  shine, 

And  the  man  of  blood  was  there,  with  his 
long  essenced  hair, 

And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marinaduke,  and  Ru- 
pert of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a  servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  bible 

and  his  sword, 
The  general  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for 

the  fight  ; 
When  a  murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and 

swell'd  into  a  shout 
Among   the   godless   horsemen   upon    the 

tyrant's  right. 

And  hark  !  like  the  roar  of  the  billows  on 

the  shore, 
The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging 

line  : 
For  God  !  for  the  cause  !  for  the  Church  ! 

for  the  laws  ! 
For  Charles,  king  of  England,  and  Rupert 

of  the  Rhine  ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  clari- 
ons and  his  drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  White- 
hall; 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks  !  Grasp 
your  pikes  !  Close  your  ranks  ! 

For  Rupert  never  comes,  but  to  conquer,  or 
to  fall. 

They  are   here  —  they  rush  on  —  we  are 

broken  —  we  are  gone  — 
Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble 

on  the  blast. 
O  Lord,  put  forth  thy  might !     O   Lord, 

defend  the  right  ! 
Stand  back  to  back,  in  God's  name  !  and 

fight  it  to  the  last ! 

Stout  Skippon  hath  a  wound  —  the  centre 

hath  given  ground. 
Hark  !  hark  !  what   means  the   trampling 

of  horsemen  on  our  rear  ? 
Whose  banner  do  I  see,  boys  ?     '  T  is  he  ! 

thank  God  !  't  is  he,  boys  ! 
Bear  up  another  minute  !     Brave  Oliver  is 

here  ! 

Their  heads  all  stooping  low,  their  points 
all  in  a  row  : 


Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a  deluge 

on  the  dikes, 
Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of 

the  Accurst, 
And  at  a  shock  have  scatter'd  the  forest  of 

his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe 

nook  to  hide 
Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on 

Temple  Bar  ; 
And   he  —  he   turns  !  he   flies  !  shame   on 

those  cruel  eyes 
That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not 

look  on  war  ! 

Ho,  comrades  !  scour  the  plain  ;  and  ere  ye 

strip  the  slain, 
First  give  another  stab  to  make  your  search 

secure  ; 
Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their 

broad-pieces  and  lockets, 
The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the 

poor. 

Fools  !  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and 

your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 
When  you  kiss'd  your  lily  hands  to  your 

lemans  to-day ; 
And   to-morrow   shall   the   fox   from    her 

chambers  in  the  rocks 
Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  about 

the  prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues,  that  late  mock'd 

at  heaven  and  hell  and  fate  ? 
And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with 

your  blades  ? 
Your  perfum'd  satin  clothes,  your  catches 

and  your  oaths  ? 
Your   stage-plays   and  your  sonnets,  your 

diamonds  and  your  spades  ? 

Down,  down,  for  ever  down  with  the  mitre 
and  the  crown, 

With  the  Belial  of  the  court,  and  the  Mam- 
mon of  the  Pope  ! 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  Wail 
in  Durham's  stalls  ; 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom,  the  bishop 
rends  his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  seven  hills  shall  mourn  her 

children's  ills, 
And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge 

of  England's  sword ; 


LORD  MACAULAY 


29 


And  the  kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  shudder 

when  they  hear 
What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the 

Houses  and  the  Word  ! 


EPITAPH    ON   A  JACOBITE 

To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  free  from  stain 
Courage  and  faith  :  vain  faith,  and  courage 

vain. 
For   him,   I  threw  lands,  honors,  wealth, 

away, 
And  one  dear  hope,  that  was  more  priz'd 

than  they. 

For  him  I  languish'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
Gray-hair'd  with  sorrow  in  my  manhood's 

prime  ; 
Heard    on  Lavernia  Scargill's  whispering 

trees, 

And  pin'd  by  Arno  for  my  lovelier  Tees  ; 
Beheld  each  night  my  home  in  fever'd  sleep, 
Each  morning  started  from  the  dream  to 

weep  ; 

Till  God,  who  saw  me  tried  too  sorely,  gave 
The  resting  place  I  ask'd,  an  early  grave. 
Oh  thou,  whom  chance  leads  to  this  nameless 

stone 
From  that  proud  country  which  was  once 

mine  own, 

By  those  white  cliffs  I  never  more  must  see, 
By  that  dear  language  which  I  spake  like 

thee, 

Forget  all  feuds,  and  shed  one  English  tear 
O'er  English  dust.   A  broken  heart  lies  here. 


IVRY 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom 

all  glories  are  ! 
And   glory  to  our  sovereign    liege,  King 

Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 

and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny 

vines,  O  pleasant  land  of  France  ! 
And    thou,    Rochelle,    our    own  Rochelle, 

proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 

mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 

in  our  joy  ; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who 

wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 


Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turn'd 

the  chance  of  war  ! 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !    for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of 

Navarre. 

Oh  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at 

the  dawn  of  day, 
We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out 

in  long  array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its 

rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's    stout    infantry,  and  Eg- 

mont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 

curses  of  our  land  ; 
And  dark   Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a 

truncheon  in  his  hand  ; 
And,  as  we  look'd  on  them,  we  thought  of 

Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled 

with  his  blood  ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules 

the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry 

of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 

armor  drest  ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon 

his  gallant  crest. 
He  look'd  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was 

in  his  eye  ; 
He  look'd  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 

was  stern  and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smil'd  on  us,  as  roll'd 

fro'm  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout  :     God 

save  our  lord  the  king  ! 
"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full 

well  he  may, 
For  never  I  saw  promise  yet  of   such  a 

bloody  fray, 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine 

amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet 

of  Navarre. " 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving.      Hark  to 

the  mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum, 

and  roaring  culverin. 
The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint 

Andre"s  plain, 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders 

and  Almayne. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentle- 
men of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  —  upon  them 
with  the  lance  ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thou- 
sand spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  be- 
hind the  snow-white  crest  ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rush'd, 
while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blaz'd  the  hel- 
met of  Navarre. 

\ 

Now,  God  be  prais'd,  the  day  is  ours  :  Ma- 
yenne  hath  turn'd  his  rein  ; 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter ;  the 
Flemish  count  is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds 
before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 

The  field  is  heap'd  with  bleeding  steeds, 
and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and, 
all  along  our  van, 

Remember  Saint  Bartholomew  !  was  pass'd 
from  man  to  man. 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  —  "  No  French- 
man is  my  foe  : 

Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let 
your  brethren  go  :  " 

Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friend- 
ship or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  sol- 
dier of  Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenqhmen  who 
fought  for  France  to-day  ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them 
for  a  prey. 


But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best 

in  fight  ; 
And  the  good  lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the 

cornet  white  — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white 

hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag 

of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high  ;  unfurl  it  wide  ;  —  that  all 

the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house 

which   wrought    His    Church    such 

woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 

their  loudest  point  of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcioth  meet  for 

Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  ;  ho  !  matrons  of 

Lucerne  — 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those 

who  never  shall  return. 
Ho  !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 

pistoles, 
That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for 

thy  poor  spearmen's  souls. 
Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that 

your  arms  be  bright  ; 
Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch 

and  ward  to-night  ; 
For  our  God  hath  crush'd  the  tyrant,  our 

God  hath  rais'd  the  slave, 
And  mock'd  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and 

the  valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom 

all  glories  are  ; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,King  Henry 

of  Navarre  ! 


ilicjarti 


FROM  "ORION  :  AN  EPIC  POEM" 

MEETING   OF   ORION   AND   ARTEMIS 

AFAR  the  hunt  in  vales  below  has  sped, 
But  now  behind  the  wooded  mount  ascends, 
Threading    its   upward   mazes    of    rough 

boughs, 

Moss'd  trunks  and  thickets,  still  invisible, 
Although  its  jocund  music  fills  the  air 


With  cries  and  laughing  echoes,  mellow'd 

all 
By  intervening  woods  and  the  deep  hills. 

The  scene  in  front  two  sloping  mountain- 
sides 

Display'd  ;  in  shadow  one,  and  one  in  light 
The  loftiest  on  its  summit  now  sustain'd 
The  sun-beams,  raying  like  a  mighty  wheel 
Half  seen,  which  left  the  front-ward  sur- 
face dark 


RICHARD   HENGIST  HORNE 


In  its  full  breadth  of  shade  ;  the  coming  sun 
Hidden  as  yet  behind  :  the  other  mount, 
Slanting  oppos'd,  swept  with  an  eastward 

face, 
Catching  the  golden  light.     Now,  while  the 

peal 

Of  the  ascending  chase  told  that  the  rout 
Still  midway  rent  the  thickets,  suddenly 
Along  the  broad  and  sunny  slope  appear'd 
The  shadow  of  a  stag  that  fled  across, 
Folio w'd  by  a  Giant's  shadow  with  a  spear  ! 

"  Hunter   of    Shadows,   thou   thyself    a 

Shade," 

Be  comforted  in  this,  —  that  substance  holds 
No  higher  attributes  ;  one  sovereign  law 
Alike  develops  both,  and  each  shall  hunt 
Its  proper  object,  each  in  turn  commanding 
The  primal  impulse,  till  gaunt  Time  become 
A  Shadow  cast  on  Space  —  to  fluctuate, 
Waiting  the  breath  of  the  Creative  Power 
To  give  new  types  for  substance  yet   un- 
known : 

So  from  faint  nebulae  bright  worlds  are  born ; 
So  worlds  return  to  vapor.  Dreams  design 
Most  solid  lasting  things,  and  from  the  eye 
That  searches  life,  death  evermore  retreats. 

Substance  unseen,  pure  mythos,  or  mi- 
rage, 
The  shadowy  chase  has  vanish'd  ;  round  the 

swell 
Of  the  near  mountain  sweeps  a  bounding 

stag; 

Round  whirls  a  god-like  Giant  close  behind  ; 
O'er  a  fallen  trunk  the  stag  with  slippery 

hoofs 
Stumbles  —  his  sleek  knees    lightly  touch 

the  grass  — 
Upward  he   springs  —  but  in  his  forward 

leap, 

The  Giant's  hand  hath  caught  him  fast  be- 
neath 

One  shoulder  tuft,  and,  lifted  high  in  air, 
Sustains  !     Now   Phoibos'    chariot    rising 

bursts 

Over  the  summits  with  a  circling  blaze, 
Gilding  those  frantic  antlers,  and  the  head 
•Of  that  so  glorious  Giant  in  his  youth, 
Who,  as  he  turns,  the  form  succinct  beholds 
Of  Artemis,  —  her  bow,  with  points  drawn 

back, 

A  golden  hue  on  her  white  rounded  breast 
Reflecting,  while  the  arrow's  ample  barb 
Gleams  o'er  her  hand,  and  at  his  heart  is 
aim'd. 


The  Giant  lower'd  his  arm  —  away  the 

stag 

Breast  forward  plunged  into  a  thicket  near; 
The  Goddess  paus'd,  and  dropp'd  her  ar- 
row's point  — 

Rais'd  it  again  —  and  then  again  relax'd 
Her  tension,  and  while  slow  the  shaft  came 

gliding 

Over  the  centre  of  the  bow,  beside 
Her  hand,  and  gently  droop'd,  so  did  the 

knee 

Of  that  heroic  shape  do  reverence 
Before  the  Goddess.     Their  clear  eyes  had 

ceas'd 

To  flash,  and  gaz'd  with  earnest  softening 
light. 

DISTRAUGHT   FOR   MEROPE. 

O  Meropd  ! 

And  where  art  thou,  while  idly  thus  I  rave  ? 
Runs  there  no  hope  —  no  fever  through  thy 

veins, 
Like  that  which  leaps  and  courses  round 

my  heart  ? 

Shall  I  resign  thee,  passion-perfect  maid, 
Who  in  mortality's  most  finish'd  work 
Rauk'st  highest  —  and  lov'st  me,  even  as  1 

love? 

Rather  possess  thee  with  a  tenfold  stress 
Of  love  ungovernable,  being  denied  J 
'Gainst  fraud  what  should  I  cast  down  in 

reply  ? 
What  but  a  sword,  since  force  must  do  me 

right, 
And  strength  was  given  unto  me  with  my 

birth, 

In  mine  own  hand,  and  by  ascendancy 
Over  my  giant  brethren.     Two  remain, 
Whom  prayers  to  dark  Hephaistos  and  my 

sire 

Poseidon,  shall  awaken  into  life  ; 
And  we  will   tear  up   gates,  and   scatter 

towers, 

Until  I  bear  off  Merope*.     Sing  on  ! 
Sing  on,  great  tempest !    in  the  darkness 

sing! 

Thy  madness  is  a  music  that  brings  calm 
Into  my  central  soul  ;  and  from  its  waves 
That  now  with  joy  begin  to  heave  and  gush, 
The  burning  Image  of  all  life's  desire, 
Like  an  absorbing  fire-breath'd  phantom- 
god, 
Rises  and  floats  !  —  here  touching  on  the 

foam, 
There  hovering  over  it ;  ascending  swift 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


Starward,  then  swooping  down  the  hemi- 
sphere 

Upon  the  lengthening  javelins  of  the  blast. 
Why  paus'd  I  in  the  palace-groves  to  dream 
Of  bliss,  with  all  its  substance  in  my  reach  ? 
Why  not  at  once,  with  thee  enfolded,  whirl 
Deep  down  the  abyss  of  ecstasy,  to  melt 
All  brain  and  being  where  no  reason  is, 
Or  else  the  source  of  reason  ?     But  the  roar 
Of  Time's  great  wings,  which  ue'er   had 

driven  me 

By  dread  events,  nor  broken-down  old  age, 
Back  on  myself,  the  close  experience 
Of  false  mankind,  with  whispers  cold  and 

dry 
As  snake-songs  midst  stone  hollows,  thus 

has  taught  me, 

The  giant  hunter,  laugh'd  at  by  the  world, 
Not  to  forget  the  substance  in  the  dream 
.Which    breeds   it.     Both   must   melt  and 

merge  in  one. 

Now  shall  I  overcome  thee,  body  and  soul, 
And  like  a  new-made  element  brood  o'er 

thee 
With  all  devouring  murmurs  !     Come,  my 

love  ! 
Come,  life's  blood-tempest!  —  come,  thou 

blinding  storm, 
And   clasp   the   rigid   pine  —  this    mortal 

frame 
Wrap  with  thy  whirlwinds,  rend  and  wrestle 

down, 

And  let  my  being  solve  its  destiny, 
Defying,  seeking,  thine  extremest  power ; 
Famish'd   and    thirsty   for   the   absorbing 

doom 

Of  that  immortal  death  which  leads  to  life, 
And  gives  a  glimpse  of  Heaven's  parental 

scheme. 

IN   FOREST   DEPTHS 

Within  the  isle,  far  from  the  walks  of 

men, 
Where  jocund  chase  was  never  heard,  nor 

hoof 

Of  Satyr  broke  the  moss,  nor  any  bird 
Sang,  save  at  times  the  nightingale  —  but 

only 

In  his  prolong'd  and  swelling  tones,  nor  e'er 
With  wild  joy  and  hoarse  laughing  melody, 
Closing  the  ecstasy,  as  is  his  wont,  — 
A  forest,  separate  and  far  withdrawn 
From  all  the  rest,  there  grew.     Old  as  the 

earth, 


Of  cedar  was  it,  lofty  in  its  glooms 
When  the  sun  hung  o'erhead,  and,  in  its 

darkness, 
Like  Night  when  giving  birth  to  Time's 

first  pulse. 

Silence  had  ever  dwelt  there  ;  but  of  late 
Came  faint  sounds,  with  a  cadence  droning 

low, 

From  the  far  depths,  as  of  a  cataract 
Whose  echoes  midst  incumbent  foliage  died. 
From  one  high  mountain  gush'd  a  flowing 

stream, 
Which  through  the  forest  pass'd,  and  found 

a  fall 
Within,    none    knew    where,    then   roll'd 

tow'rds  the  sea. 

There,   underneath    the    boughs,    mark 

where  the  gleam 
Of  sunrise  through  the  roofing's  chasm  is 

thrown 

Upon  a  grassy  plot  below,  whereon 
The  shadow  of  a  stag  stoops  to  the  stream 
Swift   rolling    tow'rds   the    cataract,   and 

drinks  deeply. 

Throughout  the  day  unceasingly  it  drinks, 
While  ever  and  anon  the  nightingale, 
Not  waiting   for   the   evening,  swells    his 

hymn  — 
His    one    sustain'd    and  heaven  -  aspiring 

tone  — 

And  when  the  sun  hath  vanish'd  utterly, 
Arm  over  arm  the  cedars  spread  their  shade, 
With    arching    wrist   and    long   extended 

hands, 
And  graveward  fingers  lengthening  in  the 

moon, 

Above  that  shadowy  stag  whose  antlers  still 
Hang  o'er  the  stream.     Now  came  a  rich- 

ton'd  voice 

Out  of  the  forest  depths,  and  sang  this  lay, 
With  deep  speech  iutervall'd  and   tender 

pause. 

"  If  we  have  lost  the  world  what  gain  is 

ours  ! 

Hast  thou  not  built  a  palace  of  more  grace 
Than  marble  towers  ?     These  trunks  are 
pillars  rare,  / 

Whose  roof  embowers  with  far  more  gran- 
deur.    Say, 

Hast  thou  not  found  a  bliss  with  Me  rope*, 
As  full  of  rapture  as  existence  new  ? 
'T  is  thus  with  me.     I  know  that  thou  art 
bless' d. 


RICHARD   HENGIST  HORNE 


33 


Our  inmost  powers,  fresh  wing'd,  shall  soar 

and  dream 
In  realms  of  Elysian  gleam,  whose  air  — 

light  —  flowers, 
Will  ever  be,  though  vague,  most  fair,  most 

sweet, 

Better  than  memory.  —  Look  yonder,  love  ! 
What  solemn  image  through  the  trunks  is 

straying  ? 

And  now  he  doth  not  move,  yet  never  turns 
On  us  his  visage  of  rapt  vacancy  ! 
It  is  Oblivion.   In  his  hand  —  though  nought 
Knows  he  of  this  —  a  dusky  purple  flower 
Droops  over  its  tall  stem.     Again,  ah  see  ! 
He  wanders  into  mist,  and  now  is  lost. 
Within   bis   brain  what   lovely  realms   of 

death 
Are  pictur'd,  and  what  knowledge  through 

the  doors 

Of  his  forgetf ulness  of  all  the  earth 
A  path  may  gain  ?     Then  turn  thee,  love, 

to  me  : 

Was  I  not  worth  thy  winning,  and  thy  toil, 
0  earth-born  son  of  Ocean  ?  Melt  to  rain." 

EOS 

Level   with   the   summit   of   that   eastern 

mount, 

By  slow  approach,  and  like  a  promontory 
Which  seems  to  glide  and  meet  a  coming 

ship, 

The  pale-gold  platform  of  the  morning  came 
Towards  the  gliding  mount.  Against  a  sky 
Of  delicate  purple,  snow-bright  courts  and 

halls, 
Touch'd  with  light  silvery  green,  gleaming 

across, 

Fronted  by  pillars  vast,  cloud-capitall'd, 
With  shafts  of  changeful  pearl,  all  rear'd 

upon 

An  isle  of  clear  aerial  gold,  came  floating  ; 
And  in  the  centre,  clad  in  fleecy  white, 
With  lucid  lilies  in  her  golden  hair, 
Eos,  sweet  Goddess  of  the  Morning,  stood. 

From  the  bright  peak  of  that  surrounded 

mount, 

One  step  sufficed  to  gain  the  tremulous  floor 
Whereon  the  palace  of  the  Morning  shoue, 
Scarcely  a  bow-shot  distant  ;  but  that  step, 
Orion's  humbled  and  still  mortal  feet 
Dared  not  adventure.  In  the  Goddess'  face 
Imploringly  he  gaz'd.  "  Advance  !  "  she 

said, 


In  tones  more  sweet  than  when  some  hea- 
venly bird, 

Hid  in  a  rosy  cloud,  its  morning  hymn 
Warbles  unseen,  wet  with  delicious  dews, 
And  to  earth's  flowers,  all  looking  up  in 

prayer, 

Tells  of  the  coming  bliss.     "  Believe  —  ad- 
vance ! 
Or,  as  the  spheres  move  onward  with  their 

song 

That  calls  me  to  awaken  other  lands, 
That  moment  will  escape  which  ne'er  re- 
turns." 
Forward    Orion    stepp'd  :     the    platform 

bright 

Shook  like  the  reflex  of  a  star  in  water 
Mov'd  by  the  breeze,  throughout  its  whole 

expanse  ; 

And  even  the  palace  glisten'd  fitfully, 
As  with  electric  shiver  it  sent  forth 
Odors  of  flowers  divine  and  all  fresh  life. 
Still  stood   he  where   he   stepp'd,  nor   to 

return 

Attempted.     To  essay  one  pace  beyond 
He  felt  no  power  —  yet  onward  he  advanced 
Safe  to  the  Goddess,  who,  with  hand  out- 

stretch'd, 
Into    the    palace    led    him.     Grace    and 

strength, 

With  sense  of  happy  change  to  finer  earth, 
Freshness  of  nature,  and  belief  in  good, 
Came   flowing  o'er '  his  soul,  and  he  was 
bless'd. 

'T  is  always  morning  somewhere  in  the 

world, 

And  Eos  rises,  circling  constantly' 
The  varied  regions  of  mankind.     No  pause 
Of  renovation  and  of  freshening  rays 
She  knows,  but  evermore  her  love  breathes 

forth 

On  fi^ld  and  forest,  as  on  human  hope, 
Health,  beauty,  power,  thought,  action,  and 

advance. 
All  this  Orion  witness'd,  and  rejoiced. 

AKIXETOS 

'T  was  eve,  and  Time,  his  vigorous  course 

pursuing, 

Met  Akinetos  walking  by  the  sea. 
At  sight  of  him  the  Father  of  the  Hours 
Paus'd  on  the  sand,  —  which  shrank,  grew 

moist,  and  trembled 
At  that  unwonted  pressure  of  the  God. 


34 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


And  thus  with  look  and  accent  stern,  he 
spake  : 

"  Thou  art  the  mortal  who,  with  hand  un- 

mov'd, 

Eatest  the  fruit  of  others'  toil ;  whose  heart 
Is  but  a  vital  engine  that  conveys 
Blood,to  no  purpose,up  and  down  thyframe ; 
Whose  forehead  is  a  large  stone  sepulchre 
Of  knowledge  !  and  whose  life  but  turns  to 

waste 
My  measur'd   hours,  and  earth's  material 

mass ! " 

Whereto  the  Great  Unmov'd  no  answer 

made, — 

And  Time  continued,  sterner  than  before  : 
"  O  not-to-be-approv'd  !  thou  Apathy, 
Who    gazest    downward    on    that    empty 

shell,— 

Is  it  for  thee,  who  bear'st  the  common  lot 
Of  man,  and  art  his  brother  in  the  fields, 
From  birth  to  funeral  pyre  ;  is  it  for  thee, 
Who  didst  derive  from  thy  long-living  sire 
More  knowledge  than  endows   far  better 

sons, 

Thy  lamp  to  burn  within,  and  turn  aside 
Thy  face  from  all  humanity,  or  behold  it 
Without  emotion,  like  some  sea-shell'd 

thing 

Staring  around  from  a  green  hollow'd  rock, 
Not  aiding,  loving,  caring — hoping  aught — 
Forgetting  Nature,  and  by  her  forgot  ?  " 

Whereto,  with  mildness,  Akinetos  said, 
"  Hast  thou  consider'd  of  Eternity  ?  " 
"  Profoundly  have  I  done  so,  in  my  youth," 
Chronos   replied,  and   bow'd  his  furrow'd 

head  ; 
"  Most,  when  iny  tender  feet  from  Chaos 

trod 
Stumbling,  —  and,  doubtful  of  my  eyes,  my 

hands 
The  dazzling  air  explor'd.     But,  since  that 

date, 

So  many  ages  have  I  told  ;  so  many, 
Fleet  after  fleet  on  newly  opening  seas, 
Descry  before  me,  that  of  late  my  thoughts 
Have  rather  dwelt  on  all  around  my  path, 
With  anxious  care.     Well  were  it  thus  with 

thee." 

Then  Akinetos  calmly  spake  once  more, 
With  eyes  still  bent  upon  the  tide-ribb'd 
sands : 


"  And  dost  thou  of  To-morrow  also  think  ?  " 
Whereat,    as    one    dismay 'd     by    sudden 

thought 
Of   many   crowding   things   that  call  him 

thence, 
Time,  with  bent  brows,  went  hurrying  on 

his  way. 

Slow  tow'rds  his  cave  the  Great  Unmov'd 

repair'd, 
And,  with    his   back  against  the  rock,  sat 

down 

Outside,  half  smiling  in  the  pleasant  air  ; 
And  in  the  lonely  silence  of  the  place 
He  thus,  at  length,  discours'd  unto  himself: 

"  Orion,  ever  active  and  at  work, 
Honest  and  skilful,  not  to  be  surpass'd, 
Drew  misery  on  himself  and  those  he  lov'd  ; 
Wrought  his  companions'  death, —  and  now 

hath  found, 

At  Artemis'  hand,  his  own.     So  fares  it  ever 
With  the  world's  builder.     He,  from  wall 

to  beam, 
From  pillar  to  roof,  from  shade  to  corporal 

form, 
From  the  first  vague  Thought  to  the  Temple 

vast, 

A  ceaseless  contest  with  the  crowd  endures, 
For   whom  he  labors.      Why  then  should 

we  move  ? 

Our  wisdom  cannot  change  whate'er  's  de- 
creed, 
Nor  e'en  the  acts  or  thoughts  of  brainless 

men  : 
Why  then  be  mov'd  ?     Best  reason  is  most 

vain. 
He   who  will  do  and   suffer,  must  —  and 

end. 

Hence,  death  is  not  an  evil,  since  it  leads 
To  somewhat  permanent,  beyond  the  noise 
Man  maketh  on  the  tabor  of  his  will, 
Until  the  small  round  burst,  and  pale  he 

falls. 
His  ear  is  stuff'd  with  the  grave's  earth, 

yet  feels 

The  inaudible  whispers  of  Eternity, 
While  Time  runs  shouting  to  Oblivion 
In   the  upper   fields  !     I  would  not  swell 

that  cry." 

Thus  Akinetos  sat  from  day  to  day, 
Absorb'd  in  indolent  sublimity, 
Reviewing   thoughts   and   knowledge   o'ei 
and  o'er ; 


RICHARD   HENGIST   HORNE 


35 


And  now  he  spake,  now  sang  unto  himself, 
Now  sank  to  brooding  silence.  From  above, 
While  passing,  Time  the  rock  touch'd  !  — 

and  it  ooz'd 

Petrific  drops  —  gently  at  first  —  and  slow. 
Reclining  lonely  in  his  fix'd  repose, 
The  Great  Unmov'd  unconsciously  became 
Attach'd  to  that  he  press 'd, —  and  gradu- 
ally- 
While  his  thoughts  drifted  to  no  shore  —  a 

part 

O'  the  rock.     There  clung  the  dead  excres- 
cence, till 
Strong     hands,    descended     from     Orion, 

made 
Large  roads,  built  markets,  granaries,  and 

steep  walls, — 

Squaring  down  rocks  for  use,  and  common 
good. 


GENIUS 

FAR  out  at  sea  —  the  sun  was  high, 

While  veer'd  the  wind,  and  flapp'd  the 

sail  — 

We  saw  a  snow-white  butterfly 
Dancing  before  the  fitful  gale, 

Far  out  at  sea  ! 

The  little  wanderer,  who  had  lost 
His  way,  of  danger  nothing  knew ; 

Settled  awhile  upon  the  mast, 

Then  flutter'd  o'er  the  waters  blue, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Above,  there  gleam'd  the  boundless  sky  ; 

Beneath,  the  boundless  ocean  sheen  ; 
Between  them  danced  the  butterfly, 

The  spirit-life  of  this  vast  scene, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

The  tiny  soul  then  soar'd  away, 

Seeking  the  clouds  on  fragile  wings, 

Lur'd  by  the  brighter,  purer  ray 

Which  hope's  ecstatic  morning  brings, 

Far  out  at  sea. 

Away  he  sped  with  shimmering  glee  ! 
Scarce    seen  —  now    lost  —  yet    onward 

borne  ! 
Night  comes  !  —  with  wind  and  rain  —  and 

he 
No  more  will  dance  before  the  Morn, 

Far  out  at  sea. 


He  dies  unlike  his  mates,  I  ween  ; 

Perhaps  not  sooner,  or  worse  cross'd  ; 
And  he  hath  felt,  thought,  known,  and  seen 

A  larger  life  and  hope  —  though  lost 

Far  out  at  sea  ! 


A  SHOAL  of  idlers,  from  a  merchant  craft 
Anchor'd  off  Alexandria,  went  ashore, 
And  mounting  asses  in  their  headlong  glee, 
Round  Pompey's  Pillar  rode  with  hoots  and 

taunts, 
As  men  oft  say,  "  What  art  thou  more  than 

we  ?  " 

Next  in  a  boat  they  floated  up  the  Nile, 
Singing   and   drinking,  swearing  senseless 

oaths, 

Shouting,  and  laughing  most  derisively 
At  all  majestic  scenes.  A  bank  they  reach'd, 
And  clambering  up,  play'd  gambols  among 

tombs  ; 
And  in  portentous   ruins   (through   whose 

depths, 

The  mighty  twilight  of  departed  Gods, 
Both  sun  and  moon  glanced  furtive,  as  in 

awe) 
They  hid,  and  whoop'd,  and  spat  on  sacred 

things. 

At  length,  beneath  the  blazing  sun  they 

lounged 

Near  a  great  Pyramid.     Awhile  they  stood 
With  stupid  stare,  until  resentment  grew, 
In  the  recoil  of  meanness  from  the  vast  ; 
And   gathering   stones,   they   with    coarse 

oaths  and  jibes 
(As  they  would  say,  "  What  art  thou  more 

than  we  ?  ") 

Pelted  the  Pyramid  !     But  soon  these  men. 
Hot   and    exhausted,   sat    them  down    tc 

drink  — 
Wrangled,  smok'd,  spat,  and  laugh'd,  anc 

drowsily 
Curs'd  the  bald  Pyramid,  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  came  :  —  a  little  sand  went  drift* 

ing  by  — 
And  morn  again  was  in  the  soft  blue  nea- 

vens. 

The  broad  slopes  of  the  shining  Pyramid 
Look'd  down  in  their  austere  simplicity 
Upon  the  glistening  silence  of  the  sands 
Whereon  no  trace  of  mortal  dust  was  seen 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


SOLITUDE  AND  THE  LILY 

THE  LILY 

I  BEND  above  the  moving  stream, 
And  see  myself  in  my  own  dream, — 

Heaven  passing,  while  I  do  not  pass. 
Something  divine  pertains  to  me, 
Or  I  to  it ;  —  reality 

Escapes  me  on  this  liquid  glass. 

SOLITUDE 

The  changeful  clouds  that  float  or  poise  on 

high, 

Emblem  earth's  night  and  day  of  history  : 
Renew'd  for  ever,  evermore  to  die. 

Thy  life-dream  is  thy  fleeting  loveliness  ; 
But  mine  is  concentrated  consciousness, 
A  life  apart  from  pleasure  or  distress. 
The  grandeur  of  the  Whole 
Absorbs  my  soul, 
While  my  caves  sigh  o'er  human  littleness. 

THE  LILY 

Ah,  Solitude, 

Of  marble  Silence  fit  abode  ! 
I  do  prefer  my  fading  face, 
My  loss  of  loveliness  and  grace, 

With  cloud-dreams  ever  in  my  view  ; 
Also  the  hope  that  other  eyes 
May  share  my  rapture  in  the  skies, 
And,  if  illusion,  feel  it  true. 


THE  SLAVE 

A  SEA-PIECE,  OFF  JAMAICA 

BEFORE  us  in  the  sultry  dawn  arose 
Indigo-tinted  mountains  ;  and  ere  noon 
We  near'd  an  isle  that  lay  like  a  fes- 
toon, 

And  shar'd  the  ocean's  glittering  repose. 

We  saw  plantations  spotted  with  white  huts ; 
Estates  midst  orange  groves  and  towering 
trees ; 


Rich   yellow   lawns   embrown'd  by  soft 

degrees  ; 
Plots  of  intense  gold  freak'd  with  shady  nuts. 

A  dead  hot  silence  tranced  sea,  land,  and 

sky-- 

And  now  along  canoe  came  gliding  forth. 
Wherein  there  sat  an  old  man  fierce  and 

swarth, 

Tiger-faced,  black-fang'd,  and  with  jaun- 
diced eye. 

Pure  white,  with  pale  blue  chequer'd,  and 

red  fold 
Of  head-cloth   'neath   straw   brim,   this 

Master  wore  ; 
While  in  the  sun-glare  stood  with  high- 

rais'd  oar 
A  naked  Image  all  of  burnish'd  gold. 

Golden  his  bones  —  high-valued  in  the  mart, 
His  minted  muscles,  and  his  glossy  skin  ; 
Golden  his  life  of  action  —  but  within 

The  slave  is  human  in  a  bleeding  heart. 


THE  PLOUGH 

A  LANDSCAPE  IN  BERKSHIRE 

ABOVE  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 

Thou  seest  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 

With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  over  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods  ; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Except  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  colloquy. 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow, 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-stream 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 

Ye  rigid  Ploughmen,  bear  in  mind 
Your  labor  is  for  future  hours  ! 

Advance  —  spare  not  —  nor  look  behind  : 
Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  youi 
powers. 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS    AND   DRAMATISTS 


37 


FROM  "TORRISMOND" 

IN  A  GARDEN  BY  MOONLIGHT 

Veronica.     Come  then,  a  song  ;  a  winding 

gentle  song, 

To  lead  me  into  sleep.  Let  it  be  low 
As  zephyr,  telling  secrets  to  his  rose, 
For  I  would  hear  the  murmuring  of  my 

thoughts ; 
And   more    of   voice    than  of    that  other 

music 
That  grows  around  the  strings  of  quivering 

lutes  ; 
But  most  of  thought  ;  for  with  my  mind  I 

listen, 
And  when  the  leaves  of  sound  are  shed  upon 

it, 
If  there  's  no  seed  remembrance  grows  not 

there. 
So   life,    so   death  ;   a    song,   and   then   a 

dream  ! 

Begin  before  another  dewdrop  fall 
From   the   soft   hold   of    these    disturbed 

flowers, 

For  sleep  is  filling  up  my  senses  fast, 
And  from  these  words  I  sink. 

SONG 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new-fall'n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  Eternity  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  evening  rain, 
Unravell'd  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 

Elvira.     She  sees  no  longer  :  leave  her 

then  alone, 
Encompass'd    by   this   round    and    moony 

night. 

A  rose-leaf   for  thy   lips,  and  then  good- 
night : 

So  life,  so    death  ;  a  song,  and   then    a 
dream  ! 


DREAM-PEDLARY 

IF  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 

That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rung  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowv,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 

Such  pearl  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 

But  there  were  dreams  to  sell 

111  didst  thou  buy  ; 
Life  is  a  dream,  they  tell, 

Waking,  to  die. 
Dreaming  a  dream  to  prize, 
Is  wishing  ghosts  to  rise  ; 
And,  if  I  had  the  spell 
To  call  the  buried  well, 

Which  one  would  I  ? 

If  there  are  ghosts  to  raise, 

What  shall  I  call 
Out  of  hell's  murky  haze, 

Heaven's  blue  pall  ? 
Raise  my  lov'd  long-lost  boy 
To  lead  me  to  his  joy. 
There  are  no  ghosts  to  raise  ; 
Out  of  death  lead  no  ways  ; 

Vain  is  the  call. 

Know'st  thou  not  ghosts  to  sue  ? 

No  love  thou  hast. 
Else  lie,  as  I  will  do, 

And  breathe  thy  last. 
So  out  of  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fall  like  a  rose-leaf  down. 
Thus  are  the  ghosts  to  woo  ; 
Thus  are  all  dreams  made  true, 

Ever  to  last  ! 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


BALLAD   OF   HUMAN    LIFE 

WHEN  we  were  girl  and  boy  together, 

We  toss'd  about  the  flowers 

And  wreath'd  the  blushing  hours 
Into  a  posy  green  and  sweet. 

I  sought  the  youngest,  best, 

And  never  was  at  rest 
Till  I  had  laid  them  at  thy  fairy  feet. 
But  the  days  of  childhood  they  were  fleet, 

And   the  blooming  sweet-briar-breath'd 
weather, 

When  we  were  boy  and  girl  together. 

Then  we  were  lad  and  lass  together, 

And  sought  the  kiss  of  night 

Before  we  felt  aright, 
Sitting  and  singing  soft  and  sweet. 

The  dearest  thought  of  heart 

With  thee  't  was  joy  to  part, 
And  the  greater  half  was  thine,  as  meet. 
Still  my  eyelid 's  dewy,  my  veins  they  beat 

At  the  starry  summer-evening  weather, 

When  we  were  lad  and  lass  together. 

And  we  are  man  and  wife  together, 
Although  thy  breast,  once  bold 
With  song,  be  clos'd  and  cold 
Beneath  flowers'  roots  and  birds'  light  feet. 
Yet  sit  I  by  thy  tomb, 
And  dissipate  the  gloom 
With  songs  of  loving  faith  and  sorrow  sweet. 
And  fate  and  darkling  grave  kind  dreams 

do  cheat, 
That,  while  fair  life,  young  hope,  despair 

and  death  are, 

We  're  boy  and  girl,  and  lass  and  lad,  and 
man  and  wife  together. 


SONGS   FROM   "DEATH'S    JEST- 
BOOK" 


TO    SEA,    TO    SEA  ! 

To  sea,  to  sea  !     The  calm  is  o'er  ; 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
A.:d  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 

Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar  : 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 


To  sea,  to  sea  !  our  wide-wing'd  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way. 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  cav'd  Tritons'  azure  day, 

Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 
The  sails  swell  full.     To  sea,  to  sea  i 


IT 


DIRGE 

IF  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep  ; 
And  not  a  sorrow 

Hang  any  tear  on  your  eye-lashes  ; 

Lie  still  and  deep, 
Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wave  washes 
The  rim  o'  the  sun  to-morrow, 
In  eastern  sky. 

But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love  and  all  its  smart, 

Then  die,  dear,  die  ; 
'T  is  deeper,  sweeter, 

Than  on  a  rose  bank  to  lie  dreaming 

With  folded  eye  ; 
And  then  alone,  amid  the  beaming 
Of  love's  stars,  thou  'It  meet  her    . 
In  eastern  sky. 

Ill 
ATHULF'S  DEATH  SONG 

A  CYPRESS-BOUGH,  and  a  rose-wreath  sweet, 
A  wedding-robe,  and  a  winding-sheet, 

A  bridal-bed  and  a  bier. 
Thine  be  the  kisses,  maid, 

And  smiling  Love's  alarms  ; 
And  thou,  pale  youth,  be  laid 
In  the  grave's  cold  arms. 
Each  in  his  own  charms, 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here  ; 
So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 
And  to  the  old  church  porch, 
While  all  the  bells  ring  clear  : 
And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 
And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  tomb 

Now  tremble  dimples  on  your  cheek, 
Sweet  be  your  lips  to  taste  and  speak, 
For  he  who  kisses  is  near  : 


THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES 


39 


By  her  the  bridegod  fair, 

In  youthful  power  and  force  ; 
By  him  the  grizard  bare, 
Pale  knight  on  a  pale  horse, 
To  woo  him  to  a  corpse. 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here  ; 
So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 
And  to  the  old  church  porch, 
While  all  the  bells  ring  clear  : 
And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 
And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  tomb. 

IV 
SECOND  DIRGE 

WE  do  lie  beneath  the  grass 

In  the  moonlight,  in  the  shade 
Of  the  yew-tree.     They  that  pass 
Hear  us  not.     We  are  afraid 
They  would  envy  our  delight, 
In  our  graves  by  glow-worm  night. 
Come  follow  us,  and  smile  as  we  ; 

We   sail   to   the   rock   in  the  ancient 

waves, 
Where  the  snow  falls  by  thousands  into  the 

sea, 

And  the  drown'd  and  the  sbipwreck'd 
have  happy  graves. 


SONGS    FROM    "THE   BRIDES' 
TRAGEDY" 


HESPERUS  SINGS 

POOR  old  pilgrim  Misery, 

Beneath  the  silent  moon  he  sate, 
A-listening  to  the  screech  owl's  cry 

And  the  cold  wind's  goblin  prate  ; 
Beside  him  lay  his  staff  of  yew 

With  wither'd  willow  twin'd, 
His  scant  gray  hair  all  wet  with  dew, 

His  cheeks  with  grief  ybrin'd  ; 
And  his  cry  it  was  ever,  alack  J 
Alack,  and  woe  is  me  1 


Anon  a  wanton  imp  astray 

His  piteous  moaning  hears, 
And  from  his  bosom  steals  away 

His  rosary  of  tears  : 
With  his  plunder  fled  that  urchin  elf, 

And  hid  it  in  your  eyes ; 
Then  tell  me  back  the  stolen  pelf, 

Give  up  the  lawless  prize  ; 

Or  your  cry  shall  be  ever,  alack  ! 
Alack,  and  woe  is  me  ! 

II 
LOVE  GOES  A-HAWKING 

A  HO  1   A  ho  ! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow, 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
His  shafts  are  light  as  beauty's  sighs, 
And  bright  as  midnight's  brightest  eyeSv 

And  round  his  starry  way 
The  swan-wing'd  horses  of  the  skies, 
With  summer's  music  in  their  manes, 
Curve  their  fair  necks  to  zephyr's  reins, 
And  urge  their  graceful  play. 

A  ho!  A  ho! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow,  . 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
The  sparrows  flutter  round  his  wrist, 
The  feathery  thieves  that  Venus  kist 
And  taught  their  morning  song, 
The  linnets  seek  the  airy  list, 
And  swallows  too,  small  pets  of  Spring, 
Beat  back  the  gale  with  swifter  wing, 
And  dart  and  wheel  along. 

A  ho  !  A  ho  ! 
Love's  horn  doth  blow, 
And  he  will  out  a-hawking  go. 
Now  woe  to  every  gnat  that  skips 
To  filch  the  fruit  of  ladies'  lips, 

His  felon  blood  is  shed  ; 
And  woe  to  flies,  whose  airy  ships 
On  beauty  cast  their  anchoring  bite, 
And  bandit  wasp,  that  naughty  wight, 
Whose  sting  id  slaughter-red. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN 

MEN 

A  GOOI>  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true  ! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fix'd  the  where  and  when  ? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  ? 
Here  's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he  : 
"  If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We  '11  set  Trelawny  free  ! 

"  We  '11  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, 
With  '  one  and  all, '  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

"  And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth  !  come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 

Here  's  men  as  good  as  you  ! 

"  Trelawny  he  's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die  ; 
But  here  's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold, 

Will  know  the  reason  why  !  " 

MAWGAN  OF  MELHUACH 

'TwAS  a  fierce  night  when  old  Mawgan 

died, 

Men  shudder'd  to  hear  the  rolling  tide  : 
The  wreckers  fled  fast  from  the  awful  shore, 
They  had  heard  strange  voices  amid   the 


"Out  with  the  boat  there,"  some  one  cried, — 
:<  Will  he  never  come  ?  we  shall  lose  the  tide : 
His  berth  is  trim  and  his  cabin  stor'd, 
He  's  a  weary  long  time  coming  on  board." 

The  old  man  struggled  upon  the  bed  : 
He  knew  the  words  that  the  voices  said  ; 
Wildly  he  shriek'd  as  his  eyes  grew  dim, 
44  He  was  dead  !  he  was  dead  f  when  I  bur- 
ied him." 


Hark  yet  again  to  the  devilish  roar, 
"  He  was  nimbler  once  with  a  ship  on  shore  • 
Come  !  come  !  old  man,  't  is  a  vain  deiay, 
We  must  make  the  offing  by  break  of  day," 

Hard  was  the  struggle,  but  at  the  last, 
With  a  stormy  pang  old  Mawgan  past, 
And  away,  away,  beneath  their  sight, 
Gleam'd  the  red  sail  at  pitch  of  night. 


TWIST  thou  and  twine  !  in  light  and  gloom 

A  spell  is  on  thine  hand  ; 
The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 

Thy  web  the  shifting  sand. 

Twine  from  this  hour,  in  ceaseless  toil, 

On  Blackrock's  sullen  shore  ; 
Till  cordage  of  the  sand  shall  coil 

Where  crested  surges  roar. 

'T  is  for  that  hour,  when,  from  the  wave, 

Near  voices  wildly  cried  ; 
When  thy  stern  hand  no  succor  gave, 

The  cable  at  thy  side. 

Twist  thou  and  twine  !  in  light  and  gloom 

The  spell  is  on  thine  hand  ; 
The  wind  shall  be  thy  changeful  loom, 

Thy  web  the  shifting  sand. 

"PATER   VESTER  PASCIT  ILLA" 

OUR  bark  is  on  the  waters  :  wide  around 
The  wandering  wave  ;  above,  the  lonely  sky. 
Hush  !  a  young   sea-bird   floats,  and   that 

quick  cry 
Shrieks  to  the   levell'd   weaponjs   echoing 

sound, 
Grasps  its  lank  wing,  and  on,  with  reckless 

bound  ! 

Yet,  creature  of  the  surf,  a  sheltering  breast 
To-night  shall  haunt  in  vain  thy  far-off  nest, 
A  call  unanswer'd  search  the  rocky  ground. 
Lord  of  leviathan  !  when  Ocean  heard 
Thy  gathering  voice,  and  sought  his  native 

breeze  ; 
When  whales  first  plunged  with  life,  and 

the  proud  deep 
Felt   unborn   tempests  heave   in  troubled 

sleep  ; 


ROBERT   STEPHEN   HAWKER 


Thou  didst  provide,  e'en  for  this  nameless 

bird, 
Home,  and  a  natural  love,  amid  the  surging 

seas. 

THE   SILENT   TOWER   OF 
BOTTREAU 

TINTADGEL  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide, 
The  boy  leans  on  his  vessel  side  ; 
He  hears  that  sound,  and  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the  wild  orphan  of  the -foam. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 
Thus  saith  their  pealing  chime  : 
Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last." 

But  why  are  Bottreau's  echoes  still  ? 
Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill  ; 
Yet  the  strange  chough   that   home   hath 

found, 
The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

Should  be  her  answering  chime  : 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  ! " 

Should  echo  on  the  blast. 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea : 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stor'd, 
The  merry  Bottreau  bells  on  board. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

Rung  out  Tintaclgel  chime  ; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 

The  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 

Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  swells  ; 

"  Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow  he  cried, 

"  We  make  the  shore  with  evening's  tide." 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

It  was  his  marriage  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  must  ring  at  last. 

"  Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land, 
But  thank,  at  sea,  the  steersman's  hand," 
The  captain's  voice  above  the  gale  : 
i:  Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail." 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

Sad  grew  the  boding  chime  : 


"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 
Boom'd  heavy  on  the  blast. 

Uprose  that  sea  !  as  if  it  heard 
The  mighty  Master's  signal-word  : 
What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip  ? 
The  death-groans  of  his  sinking  ship, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime  : 

Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 

Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell  — 
When  gray  hairs  o'er  his  forehead  fell, 
While  those  around  would  hear  and  weep  - 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

He  read  his  native  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  rung  out  at  last. 

Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreau's  waves 
Is  wakening  in  his  weedy  caves, 
Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide, 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide  : 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 
Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime  : 
Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  !  " 

TO   ALFRED   TENNYSON 

THEY  told  me  in  their  shadowy  phrase, 

Caught  from  a  tale  gone  by, 
That  Arthur,  King  of  Cornish  praise, 

Died  not,  and  would  not  die. 

Dreams  had  they,  that  in  fairy  bowers 

Their  living  warrior  lies, 
Or  wears  a  garland  of  the  flowers 

That  grow  in  Paradise. 

I  read  the  rune  with  deeper  ken, 
And  thus  the  myth  I  trace  :  — 

A  bard  should  rise,  mid  future  men, 
The  mightiest  of  his  race. 

He  would  great  Arthur's  deeds  rehearse 

On  gray  Dundagel's  shore  ; 
And  so  the  King  in  laurell'd  verse 

Shall  live,  and  die  no  more  I 


42 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS    AND   DRAMATISTS 


Eptton 


(EDWARD  LYTTON  BULWER) 


THE    CARDINAL'S   SOLILOQUY 

FROM     "  RICHELIEU  ;     OR,     THE     CONSPI- 
RACY " 

Rich,  [reading"].    "  In  silence,  and  at  night, 

the  Conscience  feels 
That  life  should  soar  to  nobler  ends  than 

Power." 

So  sayest  thou,  sage  and  sober  moralist  ! 
But  wert  thou  tried  ?     Sublime  Philosophy, 
Thou  art  the  Patriarch's  ladder,  reaching 

heaven, 
And   bright  with  beokcning  angels  —  but, 

alas  ! 
We  see   thee,  like   the   Patriarch,  but   in 

dreams, 
By  the  first  step,  dull-slumbering  on  the 

earth. 

I  am  not  happy  !  —  with  the  Titan's  lust 
I  woo'd  a  goddess,  and  I  clasp  a  cloud. 
When  I  am  dust,  my  name  shall,  like  a  star, 
Shine  through  wan  space,  a  glory,  and  a 

prophet 
Whereby  pale  seers  shall  from  their  aery 

towers 

Con  all  the  ominous  signs,  benign  or  evil, 
That  make  the  potent  astrologue  of  kings. 
But  shall  the  Future  judge  me  by  the  ends 
That  I  have  wrought,  or  by  the   dubious 

means 
Through  which  the  stream  of  my  renown 

hath  run 

Into  the  many-voiced  uufathom'd  Time  ? 
Foul  in  its  bed  lie  weeds,  and  heaps  of  slime, 
And  with  its  waves  —  when   sparkling  in 

the  sun, 

Ofttimes  the  secret  rivulets  that  swell 
Its  might  of   waters  —  blend   the  hues  of 

blood. 

Yet  are  my  sins  not  those  of  Circumstance, 
That  all-pervading  atmosphere,  wherein 
Our  spirits,  like  the  unsteady  lizard,  take 
The  tints  that  color,  and  the  food  that  nur- 
tures ? 

O  !  ye,  whose  hour-glass  shifts  its  tran- 
quil sands 

In  the  uuvex'd  silence  of  a  student's  cell ; 
Ye,  whose  untempted  hearts  have  never 

toss'd 


Upon  the  dark  and  stormy  tides  where  life 
Gives  battle  to  the  elements,  —  and  man 
Wrestles  with  man  for  some  slight  plank, 

whose  weight 

Will  bear  but  one,  while  round  the  desper- 
ate wretch 

The  hungry  billows  roar,  and  the  fierce  Fate, 
Like  some  huge  monster,  dim-seen  through 

the  surf, 

Waits  him  who  drops  ;  —  ye  safe  and  for- 
mal men, 
Who  write  the  deeds,  and  with  unfeverish 

hand 
Weigh  in  nice  scales   the  motives  of   the 

Great, 

Ye  cannot  know  what  ye  have  never  tried  ! 
History  preserves  only  the  fleshless  bones 
Of  what  we  are,  and  by  the  mocking  skull 
The  would-be  wise   pretend  to  guess  the 

features. 

Without  the  roundness  and  the  glow  of  life 
How  hideous  is  the  skeleton  !     Without 
The  colorings  and  humanities  that  clothe 
Our  errors,  the  anatomists  of  schools 
Can  make  our  memory  hideous. 

I  have  wrought 

Great  uses  out  of  evil  tools,  and  they 
In  the  time  to  come  may  bask  beneath  the 

light 

Which  I  have  stolen  from  the  angry  gods, 
And  warn  their  sons  against  the  glorious 

theft, 

Forgetful  of  the  darkness  which  it  broke. 
I  have  shed  blood,  but  I  have  had  no  foes 
Save  those  the  State  had  ;  if  my  wrath  was 

deadly, 

'T  is  that  I  felt  my  country  in  my  veins, 
And  smote  her  sous  as  Brutus  smote  his 

own. 
And  yet  I  am  not  happy  :   blanch'd   and 

sear'd 

Before  my  time  ;  breathing  an  air  of  hate, 
And  seeing  daggers  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
And  wasting  powers  that  shake  the  thrones 

of  earth 

In  contest  with  the  insects  ;  bearding  kings 
And  brav'd  by  lackies  ;  murder  at  my  bed  ; 
And  lone  amidst  the  multitudinous  web, 
With  the  dread  Three,  that  are  the  Fates 

who  hold  4 


EDWARD,   LORD   LYTTON 


43 


The  woof  and  shears  —  the  Monk,  the  Spy, 

the  Headsman. 
And  this  is  power  ?    Alas  !  I  am  not  happy. 

\_After  a  pause. 

And  yet  the  Nile  is  fretted  by  the  weeds 
Its  rising  roots  not  up  ;  but  never  yet 
Did  one  least  barrier  by  a  ripple  vex 
My  onward  tide,  unswept  in  sport  away. 
Am  I  so  ruthless  then  that  I  do  hate 
Them  who  hate  me  ?     Tush,  tush  !  I  do  not 

hate  ; 
Nay,  I  forgive.     The  Statesman  writes  the 

doom, 

But  the  Priest  sends  the  blessing.     I  for- 
give them, 

But  I  destroy  ;  forgiveness  is  mine  own, 
Destruction  is  the  State's  !    For  private  life, 
Scripture  the  guide  —  for  public,  Machiavel. 
Would  fortune  serve  me  if  the  Heaven  were 

wroth  ? 
For  chance  makes   half  my  greatness.     I 

was  born 

Beneath  the  aspect  of  a  bright-eyed  star, 
And  my  triumphant  adamant  of  soul 
Is  but  the  fix'd  persuasion  of  success. 
Ah  !  —  here  !  —  that  spasm  !  —  again  !  — 

How  Life  and  Death 
Do  wrestle  for  me  momently  !     And  yet 
The  King  looks  pale.     I  shall  outlive  the 

King! 
And   then,    thou   insolent  Austrian  —  who 

didst  gibe 

At  the  ungainly,  gaunt,  and  daring  lover, 
Sleeking  thy  looks  to  silken  Buckingham, 
Thou  shalt  —  no  matter  !  I  have  outliv'd 

love. 

O  beautiful,  all  golden,  gentle  youth  ! 
Making  thy  palace  in  the  careless  front 
And  hopeful  eye  of  man,  ere  yet  the  soul 
Hath   lost  the  memories  which  (so  Plato 

dream'd) 
Breath'd   glory   from   the   earlier   star   it 

dwelt  in  — 

Oh,  for  one  gale  from  thine  exulting  morn- 
ing. 

Stirring  amidst  the  roses,  where  of  old 
Love  shook  the  dew-drops  from  his  glan- 
cing hair  ! 

Could  I  recall  the  past,  or  had  not  set 
The  prodigal  treasures  of  the  bankrupt  soul 


In  one  slight  bark  upon  the  shoreless  sea  ; 
The  yoked  steer,  after  his  day  of  toil, 
Forgets  the  goad,  and  rests  :  to  me  alike 
Or  day  or  night  —  Ambition  has  no  rest  ! 
Shall  I  resign  ?  who  can  resign  himself  ? 
For  custom  is  ourself  ;  as  drink  and  food 
Become  our  bone  and  flesh,  the  aliments 
Nurturing    our    nobler    part,    the    mind9 

thoughts,  dreams, 

Passions,  and  aims,  in  the  revolving  cycle 
Of  the  great  alchemy,  at  length  are  made 
Our  mind  itself  ;  and  yet  the  sweets  of 

leisure, 

An  honor'd  home  far  from  these  base  in- 
trigues, 

An  eyrie  on  the  heaven-kiss'd  heights  cf 
wisdom.  — 

[Taking  up  the  book. 

Speak   to  me,  moralist !  —  I  '11   heed    thy 
counsel. 

WHEN    STARS   ARE    IN   THE 
QUIET   SKIES 

WHEN  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 
For  thoughts,  like  waves  that  glide  by  night, 

Are  stillest  when  they  shine  ; 
Mine  earthly  love  lies  hush'd  in  light 

Beneath  the  heaven  of  thine. 

There  is  an  hour  when  angels  keep 

Familiar  watch  o'er  men, 
When  coarser  souls  are  wrapp'd  in  sleep  — • 

Sweet  spirit,  meet  me  then  ! 
There  is  an  hour  when  holy  dfeams 

Through  slumber  fairest  glide  ; 
And  in  that  mystic  hour  it  seems 

Thou  shouldst  be  by  my  side. 

My  thoughts  of  thee  too  sacred  are 

For  daylight's  common  beam  : 
I  can  but  know  thee  as  my  star, 

My  angel  and  my  dream  ; 
When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies, 

Then  most  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Bend  on  me  then  thy  tender  eyes, 

As  stars  look  on  the  sea  ! 


NOTE.    Another  lyric  by  Lord  Lytton  will  be  found  in  the  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES. 


44 


DISTINCTIVE   POETS  AND   DRAMATISTS 


THE  EXECUTION  OF  MONTROSE 

COME  hither,  Evan  Cameron  ! 

Come,  stand  beside  my  knee  : 
I  hear  the  river  roaring  down 

Towards  the  wintry  sea. 
There  's  shouting  on  the  mountain-side, 

There  's  war  within  the  blast  ; 
Old  faces  look  upon  me, 

Old  forms  go  trooping  past : 
I  hear  the  pibroch  wailing 

Amidst  the  din  of  fight, 
And  my  dim  spirit  wakes  again 

Upon  the  verge  of  night. 

'T  was  I  that  led  the  Highland  host 

Through  wild  Lochaber's  snows, 
What  time  the  plaided  clans  came  down 

To  battle  with  Montrose. 
I  've  told  thee  how  the  Southrons  fell 

Beneath  the  broad  claymore, 
And  how  we  smote  the  Campbell  clan 

By  Inverlochy's  shore. 
I  've  told  thee  how  we  swept  Dundee, 

And  tam'd  the  Lindsays'  pride  ; 
But  never  have  I  told  thee  yet 

How  the  great  Marquis  died. 

A  traitor  sold  him  to  his  foes  ; 

O  deed  of  deathless  shame  ! 
I  charge  thee,  boy,  if  e'er  thou  meet 

With  one  of  Assynt's  name  — 
Be  it  upon  the  mountain's  side, 

Or  yet  within  the  glen, 
Stand  he  in  martial  gear  alone, 

Or  back'd  by  armed  men  — 
Face  him,  as  thou  wouldst  face  the  man 

Who  wrong'd  thy  sire's  renown  ; 
Remember  of  what  blood  thou  art, 

And  strike  the  caitiff  down  ! 

They  brought  him  to  the  Watergate, 

Hard  bound  with  hempen  span, 
As  though  they  held  a  lion  there, 

And  not  a  fenceless  man. 
They  set  him  high  upon  a  cart, 

The  hangman  rode  below, 
They  drew  his  hands  behind  his  back 

And  bar'd  his  noble  brow. 
Then,  as  a  hound  is  slipp'd  from  leash, 

They  cheer'd  the  common  throng, 


And  blew  the  note  with  yell  and  shout 
And  bade  him  pass  along. 

It  would  have  made  a  brave  man's  heart 

Grow  sad  and  sick  that  day, 
To  watch  the  keen  malignant  eyes 

Bent  down  on  that  array. 
There  stood  the  Whig  west-country  lords, 

In  balcony  and  bow  ; 
There  sat  their  gaunt  and  wither'd  dames, 

And  their  daughters  all  a-row. 
And  every  open  window 

Was  full  as  full  might  be 
With  black-rob'd  Covenanting  carles, 

That  goodly  sport  to  see  ! 

But  when  he  came,  though  pale  and  wan, 

He  look'd  so  great  and  high, 
So  noble  was  his  manly  front, 

So  calm  his  steadfast  eye, 
The  rabble  rout  forbore  to  shout, 

And  each  man  held  his  breath, 
For  well  they  knew  the  hero's  soul 

Was  face  to  face  with  death. 
And  then  a  mournful  shudder 

Through  all  the  people  crept, 
And  some  that  came  to  scoff  at  him 

Now  turn'd  aside  and  wept. 

But  onwards  —  always  onwards, 

In  silence  and  in  gloom, 
The  dreary  pageant  labor'd, 

Till  it  reach'd  the  house  of  doom. 
Then  first  a  woman's  voice  was  heard 

In  jeer  and  laughter  loud, 
And  an  angry  cry  and  a  hiss  arose 

From  the  heart  of  the  tossing  crowd  ; 
Then  as  the  Graeme  look'd  upwards, 

He  saw  the  ugly  smile 
Of  him  who  sold  his  king  for  gold, 

The  master-fiend  Argyle  ! 

The  Marquis  gaz'd  a  moment, 

And  nothing  did  he  say, 
But  the  cheek  of  Argyle  grew  ghastly  pale 

And  he  turn'd  his  eyes  away. 
The  painted  harlot  by  his  side, 

She  shook  through  every  limb, 
For  a  roar  like  thunder  swept  the  street^ 

And  hands  were  clench'd  at  him  ; 
And  a  Saxon  soldier  cried  aloud, 

"  Back,  coward,  from  thy  place  ! 


WILLIAM   EDMONDSTOUNE  AYTOUN 


45 


For  seven  long  years  thou  hast  not  dar'd 
To  look  him  in  the  face." 

Had  I  been  there  with  sword  in  hand, 

And  fifty  Camerons  by, 
That  day  through  high  Dunediu's  streets 

Had  peal'd  the  slogan-cry. 
Not  all  their  troops  of  trampling  horse, 

Nor  might  of  mailed  men, 
Not  all  the  rebels  in  the  south 

Had  borne  us  backwards  then  ! 
Once  more  his  foot  on  Highland  heath 

Had  trqd  as  free  as  air, 
Or  I,  and  all  who  bore  my  name, 

Been  laid  around  him  there  ! 

It  might  not  be.     They  placed  him  next 

Within  the  solemn  hall, 
Where   once   the    Scottish    kings    were 
thron'd 

Amidst  their  nobles  all. 
But  there  was  dust  of  vulgar  feet 

On  that  polluted  floor, 
And  perjur'd  traitors  fill'd  the  place 

Where  good  men  sate  before. 
With  savage  glee  came  Warristoun 

To  read  the  murderous  doom  ; 
And  then  uprose  the  great  Montrose 

In  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Now,  by  my  faith  as  belted  knight, 

And  by  the  name  I  bear, 
And  by  the  bright  Saint  Andrew's  cress 

That  waves  above  us  there, 
Yea,  by  a  greater,  mightier  oath  — 

And  oh,  that  such  should  be  ! 
By  that  dark  stream  of  royal  blood 

That  lies  'twixt  you  and  me, 
I  have  not  sought  in  battle-field 

A  wreath  of  such  renown, 
Nor  dar'd  I  hope  on  my  dying  day 

To  win  the  martyr's  crown  ! 

**  There  is  a  chamber  far  away 

Where  sleep  the  good  and  brave, 
But  a  better  place   ye  have  nam'd  for 
me 

Than  by  my  father's  grave. 
For  truth   and   right,   'gainst    treason's 
might, 

This  hand  hath  always  striven, 
And  ye  raise  it  up  for  a  witness  still 

In  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 
Then  nail  my  head  on  yonder  tower, 

Give  every  town  a  limb, 


And  God  who  made  shall  gather  them  : 
I  go  from  you  to  Him  !  " 

The  morning  dawn'd  full  darkly, 

The  rain  came  flashing  down, 
And  the  jagged  streak  of  the  levin-bolt 

Lit  up  the  gloomy  town  : 
The  thunder  crash'd  across  the  heaven, 

The  fatal  hour  was  come  ; 
Yet  aye  broke  in  with  muffled  beat 

The  'larum  of  the  drum. 
There  was  madness  on  the  earth  below 

And  anger  in  the  sky, 
And  young  and  old,  and  rich  and  poor, 

Came  forth  to  see  him  die. 

Ah,  God  !  that  ghastly  gibbet ! 

How  dismal  't  is  to  see 
The  great  tall  spectral  skeleton, 

The  ladder  and  the  tree  ! 
Hark  !  hark  !  it  is  the  clash  of  arms  — 

The  bells  begin  to  toll  — 
"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! 

God's  mercy  on  his  soul  ! " 
One  last  long  peal  of  thunder  : 

The  clouds  are  clear'd  away, 
And  the  glorious  sun  once  more  looks 
down 

Amidst  the  dazzling  day. 

"  He  is  coming  !  he  is  coming  ! " 

Like  a  bridegroom  from  his  room, 
Came  the  hero  from  his  prison 

To  the  scaffold  and  the  doom.       "*** 
There  was  glory  on  his  forehead, 

There  was  lustre  in  his  eye, 
And  he  never  walk'd  to  battle 

More  proudly  than  to  die  : 
There  was  color  in  his  visage, 

Though  the  cheeks  of  all  were  wan, 
And  they  marvell'd  as  they  saw  him  pasa 

That  great  and  goodly  man  ! 

He  mounted  up  the  scaffold, 

And  he  turn'd  him  to  the  crowd  ; 
But  they  dar'd  not  trust  the  people, 

So  he  might  not  speak  aloud. 
But  he  look'd  upon  the  heavens, 

And  they  wof  e  clear  and  blue, 
And  in  the  liquid  ether 

The  eye  of  God  shone  through; 
Yet  a  black  and  murky  battlement 

Lay  resting  on  the  hill, 
As  though  the  thunder  slept  within  — 

All  else  was  calm  and  still. 


DISTINCTIVE  POETS   AND   DRAMATISTS 


The  grim  Geneva  ministers 

With  anxious  scowl  drew  near, 
As  you  have  seen  the  ravens  flock 

Around  the  dying  deer. 
He  would  not  deign  them  word  nor  sign, 

But  alone  he  bent  the  knee, 
And  veil'd   his   face   for    Christ's  dear 
grace 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree. 
Then  radiant  and  serene  he  rose, 

And  cast  his  cloak  away  : 
For  he  had  ta'en  his  latest  look 

Of  earth  and  sun  and  day. 

A  beam  of  light  fell  o'er  him. 

Like  a  glory  round  the  shriven, 
And  he  climb'd  the  iofty  ladder 

As  it  were  the  path  to  heaven. 
Then  came  a  flash  from  out  the  cloud, 

And  a  stunning  thunder-roll ; 
And  no  man  dar'd  to  look  aloft, 

For  fear  was  on  every  soul. 
There  was  another  heavy  sound, 

A  hush  and  then  a  groan  ; 
And  darkness  swept  across  the  sky  — 

The  work  of  death  was  done  ! 


MASSACRE    OF   THE    MACPHER- 
SON 

FHAIRSHON  swore  a  feud 

Against  the  clan  M'Tavish  — 
March'd  into  their  land 

To  murder  and  to  rafish  ; 
For  he  did  resolve 

To  extirpate  the  vipers, 
With  four-and-twenty  men, 

And  five-aud-thirty  pipers. 

But  when  he  had  gone 

Half-way  down  Strath-Canaan, 
Of  his  fighting  tail 

Just  three  were  remainin'. 
They  were  all  he  had 

To  back  him  in  ta  battle  : 
All  the  rest  had  gone 

Off  to  drive  ta  cattle. 

"  Fery  coot ! "  cried  Fhairshon  — 
So  my  clan  disgraced  is  ; 


Lads,  we  '11  need  to  fight 
Pefore  we  touch  ta  peasties. 

Here  's  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
Coming  wi'  his  f assals  — 

Gillies  seventy-three, 

And  sixty  Dhuine'wassels  !  '* 

"  Coot  tay  to  you,  sir  ! 

Are  you  not  ta  Fhairshon  ? 
Was  you  coining  here 

To  visit  any  person  ? 
You  are  a  plackguard,  sir  ? 

It  is  now  six  hundred 
Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Since  my  glen  was  plunder'd. " 

"  Fat  is  tat  you  say  ? 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver  ? 
I  will  teach  you,  sir, 

Fat  is  coot  pehavior  ! 
You  shall  not  exist 

For  another  day  more  ; 
I  will  shot  you,  sir, 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore  ! n 

"  I  am  fery  glad 

To  learn  what  you  mention, 
Since  I  can  prevent 

Any  such  intention." 
So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave  some  warlike  howls, 
Trew  his  skhian-dhu, 

An'  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

In  this  fery  way 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 
Who  was  always  thought 

A  superior  person. 
Fhairshon  had  a  son, 

Who  married  Noah's  daughters 
And  nearly  spoil'd  ta  flood 

By  trinking  up  ta  water  — 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

I  at  least  believe  it, 
Had  ta  mixture  peen 

Only  half  Glenlivet. 
This  is  all  my  tale  : 

Sirs,  I  hope  't  is  new  t'  ye  ! 
Here  's  your  fery  good  healths. 

And  tamn  ta  whusky  tuty  J 


THOMAS   LOVE  PEACOCK 


47 


POETS   OF   QUALITY 


THE    MEN    OF    GOTHAM 

SEAMEN  three  !  what  men  be  ye  ? 

Gotham's  three  Wise  Men  we  be. 
Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 
The    bowl    goes    trim ;     the    moon    doth 

shine  ; 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  : 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,  so  fast  adrift  ? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 

No  :  I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so  ?  'T  is  Jove's  decree  — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be  : 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 

No  :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 
What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 
The    bowl    goes    trim  ;     the    moon    doth 

shine  ; 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine  : 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 


THE   WAR-SONG   OF   DINAS 
VAWR 

THE  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter, 
But  the  valley  sheep  are  fatter  ; 
We  therefore  deem'd  it  meeter 
To  carry  off  the  latter. 
We  made  an  expedition  ; 
We  met  an  host  and  quell'd  it ; 
We  forced  a  strong  position 
And  kill'd  the  men  who  held  it. 

On  Dyfed's  richest  valley, 

Where  herds  of  kine  were  browsing, 

We  made  a  mighty  sally, 

To  furnish  our  carousing. 

Fierce  warriors  rush'd  to  meet  us  ; 

We  met  them,  and  o'erthrew  them  : 

They  struggled  hard  to  beat  us, 

But  we  conquer'd  them,  and  slew  them. 


As  we  drove  our  prize  at  leisure, 
The  king  march'd  forth  to  catch  us  ,° 
His  rage  surpass'd  all  measure, 
But  his  people  could  not  match  us. 
He  fled  to  his  hall-pillars  ; 
And,  ere  our  force  we  led  off, 
Some  sack'd  his  house  and  cellars, 
While  others  cut  his  head  off. 

We  there,  in  strife  bewildering, 
Spilt  blood  enough  to  swim  in  : 
We  orphan'd  many  children 
And  widow'd  many  women. 
The  eagles  and  the  ravens 
We  glutted  with  our  foemen  : 
The  heroes  and  the  cravens, 
The  spearmen  and  the  bowmen. 

We  brought  away  from  battle, 

And  much  their  land  bemoan'd  them, 

Two  thousand  head  of  cattle 

And  the  head  of  him  who  own'd  them  : 

Ednyfed,  King  of  Dyfed, 

His1  head  was  borne  before  us  ; 

His  wine  and  beasts  supplied  our  feasts. 

And  his  overthrow,  our  chorus. 

MARGARET   LOVE   PEACOCK 

THREE   YEARS   OLD 

LONG  night  succeeds  thy  little  day  : 
O,  blighted  blossom  !  can  it  be 

That  this  gray  stone  and  grassy  clay 
Have  clos'd  our  anxious  care  of  thee  ? 

The  half-form'd  speech  of  artless  thought, 
That  spoke  a  mind  beyond  thy  years, 

The  song,  the  dance  by  Nature  taught, 
The  sunny  smiles,  the  transient  tears, 

The  symmetry  of  face  and  form, 
The  eye  with  light  and  life  replete, 

The  little  heart  so  fondly  warm, 
The  voice  so  musically  sweet,  — 

These,  lost  to  hope,  in  memory  yet 

Around  the  hearts  that  lov'd  thee  cling, 

Shadowing  with  long  and  vain  regret 
The  too  fair  promise  of  thy  Spring. 


POETS  OF  QUALITY 


THE   VICAR 

SOME  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste 

Had  turn'd  our  parish  topsy-turvy, 
When  Darnel  Park  was  Darnel  Waste, 

And  roads  as  little  known  as  scurvy, 
The  man  who  lost  his  way  between 

St.  Mary's  Hill  and  Sandy  Thicket 
Was  always  shown  across  the  green, 

And 'guided  to  the  parson's  wicket. 

Back  flew  the  bolt  of  lissom  lath  ; 

Fair  Margaret,  in  her  tidy  kirtle, 
Led  the  lorn  traveller  up  the  path 

Through  clean-clipp'd  rows   of  box  and 

myrtle  ; 
And  Don  and  Sancho,  Tramp  and  Tray, 

Upon  the  parlor  steps  collected, 
Wagg'd  all  their  tails,  and  seem'd  to  say, 

"  Our   master   knows   you  ;  you  're    ex- 
pected." 

Up  rose  the  reverend  Doctor  Brown, 

Up  rose  the  doctor's  "  winsome  marrow  ; " 
The  lady  laid  her  knitting  down, 

Her  husband  clasp'd  his  ponderous  Bar- 
row. 
Whate'er  the  stranger's  caste  or  creed, 

Pundit  or  papist,  saint  or  sinner, 
He  found  a  stable  for  his  steed, 

And  welcome  for  himself,  and  dinner. 

If,  when  he  reach'd  his  journey's  end, 

And  warm'd  himself  in  court  or  college, 
He  had  not  gain'd  an  honest  friend, 

And  twenty  curious  scraps  of  knowledge  ; 
If  he  departed  as  he  came, 

With  no  new  light  on  love  or  liquor, — 
Good  sooth,  the  traveller  was  to  blame, 

And  not  the  vicarage,  nor  fhe  vicar. 

His  talk  was  like  a  stream  which  runs 

With  rapid  change  from  rocks  to  roses  ; 
It  slipp'd  from  politics  to  puns  ; 

It  pass'd  from  Mahomet  to  Moses  ; 
Beginning  with  the  laws  which  keep 

The  planets  in  their  radiant  courses, 
And  ending  with  some  precept  deep 

For  dressing  eels  or  shoeing  horses. 

He  was  a  shrewd  and  sound  divine, 
Of  loud  dissent  the  mortal  terror  ; 


And  when,  by  dint  of  page  and  line, 
He  'stablish'd  truth  or  startled  error, 

The  Baptist  found  him  far  too  deep, 
The  Deist  sigh'd  with  saving  sorrow, 

And  the  lean  Levite  went  to  sleep 

And  dream'd  of  tasting  pork  to-morrow. 

His  sermon  never  said  or  show'd 

That  earth  is  foul,  that  heaven  is  gracious, 
Without  refreshment  on  the  road 

From  Jerome,  or  from  Athanasius  ; 
And  sure  a  righteous  zeal  inspir'd 

The   hand   and   head   that    penn'd   and 

plann'd  them, 
For  all  who  understood  admir'd, 

And  some  who  did  not  understand  them. 

He  wrote  too,  in  a  quiet  way, 

Small  treatises,  and  smaller  verses, 
And  sage  remarks  on  chalk  and  clay, 

And  hints  to  noble  lords  and  nurses  ; 
True  histories  of  last  year's  ghost ; 

Lines  to  a  ringlet  or  a  turban  ; 
And  trifles  to  the  Morning  Post, 

And  nothings  for  Sylvauus  Urban. 

He  did  not  think  all  mischief  fair, 

Although  he  had  a  knack  of  joking  ; 
He  did  not  make  himself  a  bear, 

Although  he  had  a  taste  for  smoking  ; 
And  when  religious  sects  ran  mad, 

He  held,  in  spite  of  all  his  learning. 
That  if  a  man's  belief  is  bad, 

It  will  not  be  improv'd  by  burning. 

And  he  was  kind,  and  lov'd  to  sit 

In  the  low  hut  or  garnish'd  cottage, 
And  praise  the  farmer's  homely  wit, 

And  share  the  widow's  homelier  pottage. 
At  his  approach  complaint  grew  mild, 

And  when  his  hand  unbarr'd  the  shutter 
The  clammy  lips  of  fever  smil'd 

The  welcome  which  they  could  not  utter 

He  always  had  a  tale  for  me 

Of  Julius  Caesar  or  of  Venus  ; 
From  him  I  learn'd  the  rule  of  three, 

Cat's-cradle,  leap-frog,  and  Qua  genus. 
I  used  to  singe  his  powder'd  wig, 

To  steal  the  staff  he  put  such  trust  in, 
And  make  the  puppy  dance  a  jig 

When  he  began  to  quote  Augustine. 


PRAED  —  LANGHORNE 


49 


Alack,  the  change  !     In  vain  I  look 

For  haunts  in  which  my  boyhood  trifled  ; 
The  level  lawn,  the  trickling  brook, 

The  trees  I  climb'd,  the  beds  I  rifled. 
The  church  is  larger  than  before, 

You  reach  it  by  a  carriage  entry  : 
It  holds  three  hundred  people  more, 

And  pews  are  fitted  for  the  gentry. 

Sit  in  the  vicar's  seat :  you  '11  hear 

The  doctrine  of  a  gentle  Johnian, 
Whose   hand    is    white,   whose   voice    is 
clear, 

Whose  tone  is  very  Ciceronian. 
Where    is    the    old    man    laid  ?       Look 
down, 

And  construe  on  the  slab  before  you  : 
"  Hie  jacet  Gulielmus  Brown, 

Vir  nulld  non  donandus  lauro" 

THE  NEWLY-WEDDED 

Now  the  rite  is  duly  done, 
Now  the  word  is  spoken, 


And  the  spell  has  made  us  one 
Which  may  ne'er  be  broken  ; 

Rest  we,  dearest,  in  our  home, 
Roam  we  o'er  the  heather  : 

We  shall  rest,  and  we  shall  roam, 
Shall  we  not  ?  together. 

From  this  hour  the  summer  rose 

Sweeter  breathes  to  charm  us  ; 
From  this  hour  the  winter  snows 

Lighter  fall  to  harm  us  : 
Fair  or  foul  —  on  land  or  sea  — 

Come  the  wind  or  weather, 
Best  and  worst,  whate'er  they  be, 

We  shall  share  together. 

Death,  who  friend  from  friend  can  part, 

Brother  rend  from  brother, 
Shall  but  link  us,  heart  and  heart, 

Closer  to  each  other  : 
We  will  call  his  anger  play, 

Deem  his  dart  a  feather, 
When  we  meet  him  on  our  way 

Hand  in  hand  together. 


THEOCRITUS 

THEOCRITUS  !  Theocritus  !  ah,  thou  hadst 

pleasant  dreams 
Of   the   crystal   spring   Burinna,  and   the 

Haleus'  murmuring  streams  ; 
Of  Physcus,  and  Neaethus,  and  fair  Are- 

thusa's  fount, 
Of  Lacinion's  beetling  crag,  and  Latymnus' 

woody  mount  ; 
Of  the  fretted  rocks  and  antres  hoar  that 

overhang  the  sea, 
And  the  sapphire  sky  and  thymy  plains  of 

thy  own  sweet  Sicily  ; 
And  of  the  nymphs  of  Sicily,  that  dwelt  in 

oak  and  pine  — 
Theocritus  !    Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  ! 

And  of  the  merry  rustics  who  tend  the  goats 

and  sheep, 
And  the  maids  who  trip  to  milk  the  cows 

at  morning's  dewy  peep, 
Of-  Clearista  with  her  locks  of  brightest 

sunny  hair, 


Hangjjorne 


And  the  saucy  girl  Eunica,  and  sweet  Chloe 
kind  and  fair  ; 

And  of  those  highly  favor'd  ones,  Eudymion 
and  Adonis, 

Loved  by  Selena  the  divine,  and  the  beau- 
teous Dionis  ; 

Of  the  silky-hair'd  caprella,  and  the  gentle 
lowing  kine  — 

Theocritus  !  Theocritus  !  what  pleasant 
dreams  were  thine  ! 

Of  the  spring  time,  and  the  summer,  and 

the  zephyr's  balmy  breeze  ; 
Of   the  dainty  flowers,  and  waving  elms,, 

and  the  yellow  humming  bees  ; 
Of  the  rustling  poplar  and  tke  oak,  the  tam= 

arisk  and  the  beech, 
The  dog-rose  and  anemone,  —  thou  hadst 

a  dream  of  each  ! 
Of  the  galingale  and  hyacinth,  and  the  lily's 

snowy  hue, 
The   couch-grass,  and   green  maiden-hair, 

and  celandine  pale  blue, 
The  gold-bedropt  cassidony,  the  fern,  and 

sweet  woodbine  — 


5° 


THE  ROISTERERS 


Theocritus  !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 
dreams  were  thiue  ! 

Of  the  merry  harvest-home,  all  beneath  the 

good  green  tree, 
The  poppies  and    the  spikes  of   corn,  the 

shouting  and  the  glee 
Of  the  lads  so  blithe  and  healthy,  and  the 

girls  so  gay  and  neat, 
And  the  dance  they  lead  around  the  tree 

with  ever  twinkling  feet  ; 
And  the  bushy  piles  of  lentisk  to  rest  the 

aching  brow, 
And  reach  and  pluck  the  damson  down  from 

the  overladen  bough, 
And  munch  the  roasted  bean  at  ease,  and 

quaff  the  Ptelean  wine  — 
Theocritus  !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  ! 

And  higher  dreams  were  thine  to  dream  — 

of  Heracles  the  brave, 
And  Polydeukes  good  at  need,  and  Castor 

strong  to  save  ; 
Of  Dionysius  and  the  woe  he  wrought  the 

Theban  king  ; 


And  of  Zeus  the  mighty  centre  of  Olympus' 

glittering  ring  ; 
Of  Tiresias,  the  blind  old  man,  the  fam'd 

Aonian  seer  ; 
Of   Hecate,  and  Cthouian   Dis,  whom  all 

mankind  revere  ; 
And  of  Daphnis  lying  down  to  die  beneath 

the  leafy  vine  — 
Theocritus !     Theocritus  !    what    pleasant. 

dreams  were  thine  ! 

But  mostly  sweet  and  soft  thy  dreams  — 

of  Cypris'  loving  kiss, 
Of  the  dark-haired  maids  of  Corinth,  and 

the  feasts  of  Sybaris  ; 
Of  alabaster  vases  of  Assyrian  perfume, 
Of  ebony,  and  gold,  and  pomp,  and  softly- 

curtain'd  room  ; 

Of  Faunus  piping  in  the  woods  to  the  Sa- 
tyrs' noisy  rout, 
And  the  saucy  Panisks  mocking  him  with 

many  a  jeer  and  flout  ; 
And    of    the    tender-footed    Hours,    and 

Pieria's  tuneful  Nine  — 
Theocritus !    Theocritus !    what    pleasant 

dreams  were  thine  J 


THE   ROISTERERS 


("  THOMAS    INGOLDSBY  ") 


THE   JACKDAW   OF   RHEIMS 

THE  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  ! 
Bishop  and  abbot  and  prior  were  there  ; 

Many  a  monk,  and  many  a  friar, 

Many  a  knight,  and  many  a  squire, 
With  a  great  many  more  of  lesser  degree,  — 
In  sooth,  a  goodly  company  ; 
And   they   serVd   the    Lord    Primate    on 
bended  knee. 

Never,  I  ween, 

Was  a  prouder  seen, 

Read  of  in  books,  or  dreamt  of  in  dreams, 
Than   the   Cardinal   Lord   Archbishop    of 
Rheims  ! 

In  and  out 

Through  the  motley  rout, 
That  little  Jackdaw  kept  hopping  about ; 


Here  and  there 

Like  a  dog  in  a  fair, 

Over  comfits  and  cates, 

And  dishes  and  plates, 
Cowl  and  cope,  and  rochet  and  pall, 
Mitre  and  crosier  !  he  hopp'd  upon  all ! 

With  a  saucy  air, 

He  perch'd  on  the  chair 
Where,  in  state,  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  sat, 
In  the  great  Lord  Cardinal's  great  red  hat  ; 

And  he  peer'd  in  the  face 

Of  his  Lordship's  Grace, 
With  a  satisfied  look,  as  if  he  would  say, 
"We  two  are  the  greatest  folks  here  to« 
day  !  » 

And  the  priests,  with  awe, 

As  such  freaks  they  saw, 
Said,  "  The  Devil  must  be   in  that  little 
Jackdaw  ! " 


RICHARD   HARRIS   BARHAM 


The  feast  was  over,  the  board  was  clear'd, 
The  flawns  and  the  custards  had  all  disap- 

pear'd, 
And  six  little   Singing-boys,  —  dear  little 

souls  ! 

In  nice  clean  faces,  and  nice  white  stoles, 
Came  in  order  due, 
Two  by  two, 

Marching  that  grand  refectory  through. 
A  nice  little  boy  held  a  golden  ewer, 
Emboss'd  and  fill'd  with  water,  as  pure 
As  any  that   flows   between   Rheims    and 

Namur, 

Which  a  nice  little  boy  stood  ready  to  catch 
In  a  fine  golden  hand-basin  made  to  match. 
Two  nice  little  boys,  rather  more  grown, 
Carried     lavender-water    and    eau-de-Co- 
logne ; 

And  a  nice  little  boy  had  a  nice  cake  of  soap, 
Worthy  of  washing  the  hands  of  the  Pope. 
One  little  boy  more 
A  napkin  bore, 
Of    the    best   white   diaper,  fringed   with 

pink, 

And  a  Cardinal's  hat  mark'd  in  "  permanent 
ink." 

The  great  Lord  Cardinal  turns  at  the  sight 
Of  these  nice  little  boys  dress'd  all  in  white  : 
From  his  finger  he  draws 
His  costly  turquoise  ; 

And,  not  thinking  at  all  about  little  Jack- 
daws, 

Deposits  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  his  plate, 
While  the  nice  little  boys  on  his  Eminence 

wait  ;      » 
Till,  when  nobody  's  dreaming  of  any  such 

thing, 
That  little  Jackdaw  hops  off  with  the  ring  ! 

There  's  a  cry  and  a  shout, 
And  a  deuce  of  a  rout, 
And  nobody  seems  to  know  what  they  're 

about, 
But  the  monks  have  their  pockets  all  turn'd 

inside  out  ; 

The  friars  are  kneeling, 
And  hunting,  and  feeling 
The  carpet,  the  floor,  and  the  walls,  and  the 

ceiling. 

The  Cardinal  drew 
Off  each  plum-color'd  shoe, 
And  left  his  red  stockings  expos'd  to  the 
view  : 


He  peeps,  and  he  feels 
In  the  toes  and  the  heels  ; 
They  turn  up  the  dishes,  —  they  turn  up 

the  plates,  — 
They  take  up  the  poker  and  poke  out  the 

grates, 

—  They  turn  up  the  rugs, 
They  examine  the  mugs  : 
But  no  !  —  no  such  thing  ; 
They  can't  find  THE  RING  !  ' 
And  the  Abbot  declar'd  that,  "  when  no« 

body  twigg'd  it, 

Some  rascal  or  other  had  popp'd  in   and 
prigg'd  it  ! " 

The  Cardinal  rose  with  a  dignified  look, 
He  call'd  for  his  candle,  his  bell,  and  his 

book  : 

In  holy  anger,  and  pious  grief, 
He  solemnly  curs'd  that  rascally  thief  ! 
He  curs'd  him  at  board,  he  curs'd  him 

in  bed, 
From  the  sole  of  his  foot  to  the  crown  of 

his  head  ! 
He  curs'd  him  in    sleeping,  that   every 

night 
He  should  dream  of  the  devil,  and  wake 

in  a  fright  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  eating,  he  curs'd  him 

in  drinking, 
He  curs'd  him  in  coughing,  in  sneezing, 

in  winking  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  sitting,  in  standing,  in 

lying  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  walking,  in  riding,  in 

flying  ; 
He  curs'd  him  in  living,  he  curs'd  him 

in  dying  ! 

Never  was  heard  such  a  terrible  curse  ! 
But  what  gave  rise 
To  no  little  surprise, 
Nobody  seem'd  one  penny  the  worse  ! 

The  day  was  gone, 
The  night  came  on, 
The  monks  and  the  friars  they  search'd  till 

dawn  ; 

When  the  sacristan  saw, 
On  crumpled  claw, 

Come   limping   a   poor   little   lame    Jack- 
daw. 

No  longer  gay, 
As  on  yesterday; 

His  feathers  all  seem'd  to  be  turn'd  the 
wrong  way; 


THE  ROISTERERS 


His    pinions    droop'd —  he    could    hardly 

stand, 
His  head  was  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  your 

hand  ; 

His  eye  so  dim, 
So  wasted  each  limb, 
That,  heedless  of  grammar,  they  all  cried, 

"  THAT  's  HIM  ! 

That 's  the  scamp  that  has  done  this  scanda- 
lous thing  ! 
That 's  the  thief   that   has   got  my   Lord 

Cardinal's  Ring  !  " 
The  poor  little  Jackdaw, 
When  the  monks  he  saw, 
Feebly  gave  vent  to  the  ghost  of  a  caw  ; 
And  turn'd  hie  bald  head,  as  much  as  to 

say, 

"  Pray,  be  so  good  as  to  walk  this  way  !  " 
Slower  and  slower 
He  limp'd  on  before, 

Till  they  came  to  the  back  of  the  belfry- 
door, 

Where  the  first  thing  they  saw, 
Midst  the  sticks  and  the  straw, 
Was  the  RING,  in  the  nest  of  that  little 
Jackdaw. 

Then  the  great  Lord  Cardinal  call'd  for  his 

book, 

And  off  that  terrible  curse  he  took  ; 
The  mute  expression 
Serv'd  in  lieu  of  confession, 
And,  being  thus  coupled  with  full   resti- 
tution, 
The  Jackdaw  got  plenary  absolution  ! 

—  When  those  words  were  heard, 
That  poor  little  bird 
Was  so  changed  in  a  moment,  't  was  really 

absurd. 

He  grew  sleek  and  fat ; 
In  addition  to  that, 
A  fresh  crop  of  feathers  came  thick  as  a 

mat. 

His  tail  waggled  more 
Even  than  before  ; 
But  no  longer  it  wagg'd  with  an  impudent 

air, 
No   longer   he  perch'd   on  the  Cardinal's 

chair. 

He  hopp'd  now  about 
With  a  gait  devout  ; 
At  matins,  at  vespers,  he  never  was  out  ; 
And,  so  far  from  any  more  pilfering  deeds, 
He  always  seem'd  telling  the  Confessor's 
beads. 


If  any  one  lied,  or  if  any  one  swore, 

Or  sluinber'd  in  pray'r-time  and  happen'd 

to  snore, 

That  good  Jackdaw 
Would  give  a  great  "  Caw  !  " 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  do  so  any  more  !  " 
While  many  remark'd,  as  his  manners  they 

saw, 
That  they  "  never  had  known  such  a  pious 

Jackdaw  ! " 
He  long  liv'd  the  pride 
Of  that  country  side, 
And  at  last  in  the  odor  of  sanctity  died  ; 
When,  as  words  were  too  faint 
His  merits  to  paint, 
The  Conclave  determin'd  to  make  him  a 

Saint ; 
And  on  newly-made  Saints  and  Popes,  as 

you  know, 
It 's  the  custom,  at  Rome,  new  names  to 

bestow, 

So  they  canoniz'd  him  by  the  name  of  Jen? 
Crow ! 


MR.     BARNEY     MAGUIRE'S     AC- 
COUNT  OF   THE   CORONATION 

OCH  !  the  Coronation  !  what  celebration 

For  emulation  can  with  it  compare  ? 
When  to  Westminster  the  Royal  Spinster, 
And  the  Duke  of  Leinster,  all  in  order 

did  repair  ! 

'Twas  there  you'd  see  the  New  Polishe- 
•  men 

Make  a  scrimmage  at  half  after  four, 
And  the   Lords  and  Ladies,  and  the  Miss 

O'Gradys, 

All   standing   round   before   the  Abbey 
door. 

Their  pillows  scorning,  that  self -same  morn- 
ing 

Themselves  adorning,  all  by  the  caudle- 
light, 
With  roses  and  lilies,  and  daffy-down-dil- 

lies 
And  gould  and  jewels,  and  rich  di'monds 

bright. 

And  then  approaches  five  hundred  coaches, 
With  Gineral    Dullbeak.  —  Och  !  't  was 

mighty  fine 

To  see  how  asy  bould  Corporal  Casey, 
With  his  sword  drawn,  prancing  made 
them  kape  the  line. 


53 


Then  the  Guns'  alarums,  and  the  King  of 

Arums, 

All  in  his  Garters  and  his  Clarence  shoes, 
Opening  the  massy  doors  to  the  bould  Ain- 

bassydors, 

The  Prince  of  Potboys,  and  great  hay- 
then  Jews  : 

'T  would  have  made  you  crazy  to  see  Ester- 
hazy 
All  jool's  from  his  jasey  to  his  di'mond 

boots, 
With  Alderman  Harmer,  and  that  swate 

charmer 
The  famale  heiress,  Miss  Anja-ly  Coutts. 

And  Wellington,  walking  with  his  swoord 

drawn,  talking 
To  Hill  and  Hardinge,  haroes  of  great 

fame  : 

And  Sir  De  Lacy,  and  the  Duke  Dalmasey 
(They  call'd  him  Sowlt  afore  he  changed 

his  name), 
Themselves    presading   Lord    Melbourne, 

lading 

The  Queen,  the  darling,  to  her  royal  chair, 
And  that  fine  ould  fellow,  the  Duke  of  Pell- 

Mello, 
The  Queen  of  Portingal's  Chargy-de-fair. 

Then   the   noble    Prussians,   likewise   the 

Russians, 
In  fine  laced  jackets  with  their  goulden 

cuffs, 

And  the  Bavarians,  and  the  proud  Hunga- 
rians, 
And   Everythingarians  all   in   furs  and 

muffs. 
Then  Misther  Spaker,  with  Misther  Pays 

the  Quaker, 

All  in  the  gallery  you  might  persave  ; 
But  Lord  Brougham  was  missing,  and  gone 

a-fishing, 

Ounly  crass  Lord  Essex  would  not  give 
him  lave. 

There  was  Baron  Alien  himself  exalting, 
And  Prince  Von   Schwartzenburg,    and 

many  more  ; 
Och  !  I  'd  be  bother'd  and  entirely  smoth- 

er'd 

To  tell  the  half  of  'em  was  to  the  fore  ; 
With  the  swate  Peeresses,  hi  their  crowns 

and  dresses, 

And  Aldermanesses,  and  the  Boord  of 
Works  ; 


But  Mehemet  Ali  said,  quite  gintaly, 

"  I  'd  be  proud  to  see  the  likes  among  the 
Turks  ! " 

Then  the  Queen,  Heaven  bless  her !  och  ! 

they  did  dress  her 
In  her  purple  garaments  and  her  goulden 

Crown  ; 
Like  Venus,  or   Hebe,  or  the    Queen  of 

Sheby, 
With  eight  young  ladies  houldiug  up  her 

gown. 

Sure  't  was  grand  to  see  her,  also  for  to  he-ar 
The  big  drums  bating,  and  the  trumpets 

blow, 
And  Sir  George  Smart  !  Oh  !  he  play'd  a 

Cousarto, 

With  his  four  and  twenty  fiddlers  all  on 
a  row. 

Then  the  Lord  Archbishop  held  a  goulden 

dish  up, 
For  to   resave   her   bounty    and    great 

wealth, 
Saying,  "  Plase   your   glory,  great  Queen 

Vic-tory, 
Ye  '11  give  the  Clargy  lave  to  drink  your 

health  ! " 
Then  his    Riverence,  retrating,  discoors'd 

the  mating  : 
"  Boys  !     Here  's  your  Queen  !  deny  it  if 

you  can  ; 
And  if  any  bould  traitor,  or  infarior  cray- 

thur 
Sneezes  at  that,  I  'd  like  to  see  the  man  !  " 

TheH  the  Nobles   kneeling  to  the   Pow'rs 

appealing, 
"  Heaven  send  your  Majesty  a  glorious 

reign  ! " 
And  Sir  Claudius  Hunter  he  did  confront 

her, 
All    in    his   scarlet    gown  and   goulden 

chain. 
The  great  Lord  May'r,  too,  sat  in  his  chair 

too, 

But  mighty  sarious,  looking  fit  to  cry, 
For  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  all  in  his  hurry, 
Throwing  the   thirteens,  hit  him  in  his 
eye. 

Then  there  was  preaching,  and  good  store 

of  speeching, 

With  Dukes  and  Marquises  on  bended 
knee  ; 


54 


THE  ROISTERERS 


And  they  did  splash  her  with  real  Macas- 

shur, 
And  the  Queen  said, "  Ah  !  then  thank  ye 

all  for  me  !  " 
Then  the  trumpets  braying,  and  the  organ 

playing, 

And  the  sweet  trombones,  with  their  sil- 
ver tones  ; 
But     Lord     Rolle    was    rolling  ;  —  't  was 

mighty  consoling 

To  think  his  Lordship  did  not  break  his 
bones  t 

Then  the  crames  and  custard,  and  the  beef 

and  mustard, 
All  on  the  tombstones  like  a  poultherer's 

shop  ; 
With  lobsters   and  white-bait,  and   other 

swate-meats, 
And  wine  and  nagus,  and  Imparial  Pop  ! 


t&illtam 


THE  IRISHMAN  AND  THE  LADY 

THERE  was  a  lady  liv'd  at  Leith, 

A  lady  very  stylish,  man  ; 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 
She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman  — 
A  nasty,  ugly  Irishman, 
A  wild,  tremendous  Irishman, 
A   tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping, 
ranting,  roaring  Irishman. 

His  face  was  no  ways  beautiful, 

For  with  small-pox  't  was  scarr'd  across; 
And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
Were  almost  double  a  yard  across. 
Oh,  the  lump  of  an  Irishman, 
The  whiskey-devouring  Irishman, 
The   great   he-rogue   with    his   wonderful 
brogue  —  the  fighting,  rioting  Irish- 
man. 

One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle-green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear  ; 
And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking  legs 
Were  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear. 
Oh,  the  great  big  Irishman, 
The  rattling,  battling  Irishman  — 
The  stamping,  ramping,  swaggering,  stag- 
gering, leathering  swash  of  an  Irish- 
man. 


There  was   cakes   and  apples   in   all    the 

Chapels, 
With    fine    polonies,   and    rich    mellow 

pears,  — 
Och  !  the  Count  Von  Strogonoff,  sure  he 

got  prog  enough, 
The  sly  ould  Divil,  undernathe  the  stairs. 

Then  the  cannons  thunder'd,  and  the  people 

wonder'd, 
Crying,  "God  save  Victoria,  our  Royal 

Queen!"  — 

Och  I   if  myself  should  live  to  be  a  hun- 
dred, 
Sure  it 's  the  proudest  day  that  I  '11  have 

seen  !  — 
And  now,  I  've  ended,  what  I  pretended, 

This  narration  splendid  in  swate  poe-thry, 
Ye  dear  bewitcher,  just  hand  the  pitcher, 
Faith,  it 's  myself  that 's  getting  dhry. 


He  took  so  much  of  Lundy-foot 

That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle  —  0  1 
And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow's  neck 
Was  as  bad  as  the  neck  of  a  buffalo. 
Oh,  the  horrible  Irishman, 
The  thundering,  blundering  Irishman — 
The   slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing, 
thrashing,  hashing  Irishman. 

His  name  was  a  terrible  name,  indeed, 

Being  Timothy  Thady  Mulligan  ; 
And  whenever  he  emptied  his  tumbler  of 

punch 
He'd    not    rest    till    he    fill'd    it    full 

again. 

The  boozing,  bruising  Irishman, 
The  'toxicated  Irishman  — 
The     whiskey,    frisky,    rummy,     gummy, 
brandy,  no  dandy  Irishman. 

This  was  the  lad  the  lady  lov'd, 

Like  all  the  girls  of  quality  ;  •  . 

And  he  broke  the  skulls  of  the  men  of 

Leith, 

Just  by  the  way  of  jollity. 
Oh,  the  leathering  Irishman, 
The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman  — 
The  hearts  of  the  maids,  and  the  gentle* 
men's  heads,  were  bother'd  I  'm  sure 
by  this  Irishman. 


MAGINN  —  MAHONY 


55 


THE  SOLDIER-BOY 

I  GIVE  my  soldier-boy  a  blade, 

In  fair  Damascus  fashion'd  well  ; 
Who  first  the  glittering  falchion  sway'd, 

Who  first  beneath  its  fury  fell, 
I  know  not  ;  but  I  hope  to  know 

That  for  no  mean  or  hireling  trade, 
To  guard  no  feeling  base  or  low, 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

Cool,  calm,  and  clear,  the  lucid  flood 
In  which  its  tempering  work  was  done 

As  calm,  as  clear,  as  cool  of  mood, 
Be  thou  whene'er  it  sees  the  sun. 


For  country's  claim,  at  honor's  call, 
F,or  outraged  friend,  insulted  maid, 

At  mercy's  voice  to  bid  it  fall, 
I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 

The  eye  which  mark'd  its  peerless  edge, 

The  hand   that  weigh'd  its  balanced 

poise, 
Anvil  and  pincers,  forge  and  wedge, 

Are   gone   with    all  their  flame   and 

noise  — 
And  still  the  gleaming  sword  remains  ; 

So,  when  in  dust  I  low  am  laid, 
Remember  by  these  heart-felt  strains, 

I  gave  my  soldier-boy  a  blade. 


f  rauci£ 

("FATHER  PROUT") 


THE   SHANDON    BELLS 

Sabbata  pango  ; 
Fvnera  plango  ; 
Solemnia  clango. 

INSCRIPTION   ON   AH   OLD   BELL. 

WITH  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee, 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  b*ells  chiming 
?ull  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate  — 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine  ; 
For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  the  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 


The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  Ve  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Js  otre  Dame  ; 
,  But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly  : 
Oh  1  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

There 's  a  bell  in  Moscow  ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  oh  ! 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me  : 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee- 


WALKER  —  COLERIDGE 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


f&iftiam 


DEATH'S  ALCHEMY 

THEY  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  on  thy  bier, 
More   lovely  than  in  life  ;  that  when  the 

thrall 
Of  earth  was  loos'd,  it  seem'd  as  though  a 

pall 

Of  years  were  lifted,  and  thou  didst  appear 
Such   as  of   old  amidst   thy  home's    calm 

sphere 
Thou  sat'st,  a  kindly  Presence  felt  by  all 


In  joy  or   grief,  from  morn  to  evening- 
fall, 

The  peaceful  Genius  of  that  mansion  dear. 
Was  it  the  craft  of  all-persuading  Love 
That  wrought  this  marvel  ?  or  is  Death  in- 
deed 

A  mighty  master,  gifted  from  above 
With  alchemy  benign,  to  wounded  hearts 
Minist'ring  thus,  by  quaint  and  subtle  arts, 
Strange    comfort,  whereon    after-thought 
may  feed  ? 


TO   THE  NAUTILUS 

WHERE  Ausonian  summers  glowing 
Warm  the  deep  to  life  and  joyance, 
And  gentle  zephyrs,  nimbly  blowing, 
Wanton  with  the  waves  that  flowing 
By  many  a  land  of  ancient  glory, 
And  many  an  isle  renown'd  in  story, 
Leap  along  with  gladsome  buoyance, 

There,  Marinere, 

Dost  thou  appear 
In  faery  pinnace  gaily  flashing, 
Through   the   white    foam   proudly   dash- 
ing, 

The  joyous  playmate  of  the  buxom  breeze, 
The  fearless  fondling  of  the  mighty  seas. 

Thou  the  light  sail  boldly  spreadest, 
O'er  the  furrow'd  waters  gliding, 
Thou  nor  wreck  nor  foeman  dreadest, 
Thou  nor  helm  nor  compass  needest, 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee, 
While  the  bounding  surges  love  thee  : 
In  their  deepening  bosoms  hiding 

Thou  canst  not  fear, 

Small  Marinere, 

For  though  the  tides  with  restless  motion 
Bear  thee  to  the  desert  ocean, 
Far  as  the  ocean  stretches  to  the  sky, 
'T  is  all  thine  own,  't  is  all  thy  empery. 


Coleridge 

Lame  is  art,  and  her  endeavor 
Follows  nature's  course  but  slowly, 
Guessing,  toiling,  seeking  ever, 
Still  improving,  perfect  never  ; 
Little  Nautilus,  thou  showest 
Deeper  wisdom  than  thou  knowest, 
Lore,  which  man  should  study  lowly  : 

Bold  faith  and  cheer, 

Small  Marinere, 

Are  thine  within  thy  pearly  dwelling  : 
Thine,  a  law  of  life  compelling, 
Obedience,  perfect,  simple,  glad  and  free, 
To  the  great  will  that  animates  the  sea. 

THE   BIRTH    OF   SPEECH 

WHAT  was't  awaken'd  first   the   untried 

ear 

Of  that  sole  man  who  was  all  human  kind  ? 
Was  it  the  gladsome  welcome  of  the  wind, 
Stirring  the  leaves  that  never  yet  were  sere  ? 
The  four  mellifluous  streams  which  flow'd  so 

near, 

Their  lulling  murmurs  all  in  one  combin'd  ? 
The  note  of  bird  unnam'd  ?  The  startled 

hind 

Bursting  the  brake  —  in  wonder,  not  in  fear, 
Of  her  new  lord  ?     Or  did  the  holy  ground 
Send  forth  mysterious  melody  to  greet 
The  gracious  pressure  of  immaculate  feet  ? 


HARTLEY   COLERIDGE 


57 


Did  viewless  seraphs  rustle  all  around, 
Making  sweet  music  out  of  air  as  sweet, 
Or  his  own  voice  awake  him  with  its  sound  ? 


WHITHER? 

WHITHER  is  gone  the  wisdom  and  the  power 
That  ancient  sages  scatter'd  with  the  notes 
Of  thought-suggesting  lyres  ?  The  music 

floats 

In  the  void  air  ;  e'en  at  this  breathing  hour, 
In  every  cell  and  every  blooming  bower 
The  sweetness  of  old  lays  is  hovering  still : 
But  the  strong  soul,  the  self-constraining 

will, 
The  rugged  root  that  bare   the  winsome 

flower 
Is  weak  and  wither'd.      Were  we  like  the 

Fays 

That  sweetly  nestle  in  the  foxglove  bells, 
Or  lurk  and  murmur  in  the  rose-lipp'd  shells 
Which  Neptune  to  the  earth  for  quit-rent 

pays, 

Then  might  our  pretty  modern  Philomels 
Sustain  our  spirits  with  their  roundelays. 


TO    SHAKESPEARE 

THE  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathom'd  centre.     Like  that  Ark 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high, 
O'er  the  drown'd  hills,  the  human  family, 
And  stock  reserv'd  of  every  living  kind, 
So,  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind, 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
That  make  all  worlds.      Great  Poet,  't  was 

thy  art 

To  know  thyself,  and  in  thyself  to  be 
Whate'er  love,  hate,  ambition,  destiny, 
Or  the  firm,  fatal  purpose  of  the  heart, 
Can  make  of  Man.     Yet  thou  wert  still  the 

same, 
Serene  of  tbought,  unhurt  by  thy  own  flame. 


IDEALITY 

THE  vale  of  Tempe  had  in  vain  been  fair, 
Green  Ida  never  deem'd  the  nurse  of  Jove  ; 
Each  fabled  stream,  beneath  its  covert 

grove, 
Had  idly  murmur'd  to  the  idle  air  ; 


The  shaggy  wolf  had  kept  his  horrid  lair 
In    Delphi's    cell,    and    old     Trophonius: 

cave, 

And  the  wild  wailing  of  the  Ionian  wave 
Had   never   blended   with    the  sweet   de- 
spair 
Of  Sappho's  death-song  :  if  the  sight  in- 

spir'd 

Saw  only  what  the  visual  organs  show, 
If  heaven-born  phantasy  no  more  requir'd 
Than  what  within  the  sphere  of  sense  may 

grow. 

The  beauty  to  perceive  of  earthly  things, 
The  mounting  soul  must  heavenward  prune 
her  wings. 


SONG 

SHE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be, 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smil'd  on  me  ; 
Oh!  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  colds 
To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 

And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 
The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 

Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 

Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 


PRAYER 

BE  not  afraid  to  pray  —  to  pray  is  right. 
Pray,  if  thou  canst,  with  hope;   but  ever 

pray, 
Though  hope  be  weak,  or  sick  with  long 

delay  ; 

Pray  in  the  darkness,  if  there  be  no  light. 
Far  is  the  time,  remote  from  human  sight, 
When  war  and  discord  on  the  earth  shall 

cease  ; 

Yet  every  prayer  for  universal  peace 
Avails  the  blessed  time  to  expedite. 
Whate'er   is  good    to   wish,    ask    that    of 

Heaven, 
Though  it  be  what  thou  canst  not  hope  to 

see  : 

Pray  to  be  perfect,  though  material  leaven 
Forbid  the  spirit  so  on  earth  to  be; 
But  if  for  any  wish  thou  darest  not  pray, 
Then  pray  to  God  to  cast  that  wish  away. 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


"MULTUM    DILEXIT" 

SHE  sat  and  wept  beside  His  feet;  the  weight 
Of  siu  oppress'd  her  heart;  for  all  the  blame, 
And  the  poor  malice  of  the  worldly  shame, 
To  her  was  past,  extinct,  and  out  of  date  : 
Only  the  sin  remain'd,  —  the  leprous  state ; 
She  would  be  melted  by  the  heat  of  love, 
By  fires  far  fiercer  than  are  blown  to  prove 
And  purge  the  silver  ore  adulterate. 


She  sat  and  wept,  and  with  her  untress'd 

hair 
Still  wip'd  the  feet  she  was  so  bless'd  to 

touch  ; 

And  He  wip'd  off  the  soiling  of  despair 
From  her  sweet  soul,  because  she  lov'd  so 

much. 

I  am  a  sinner,  full  of  doubts  and  fears  : 
Make   me   a  humble   thing  of    love    and 

tears. 


TAKE   ME,   MOTHER   EARTH 

TAKE  me,  Mother  Earth,  to  thy  cold  breast, 
And  fold  me  there  in  everlasting  rest ! 

The  long  day  is  o'er, 

I  'm  weary,  I  would  sleep  ; 

But  deep,  deep, 

Never  to  waken  more. 

I  have  had  joy  and  sorrow,  I  have  prov'd 
What  life  could  give,  have  lov'd,  aud  been 
belov'd  ; 


I  am  sick,  and  heart-sore, 
And  weary;  let  me  sleep  ; 
But  deep,  deep, 
Never  to  waken  more. 

To  thy  dark   chamber,   Mother  Earth,  I 

come, 
Prepare  thy  dreamless  bed  in  my  last  home; 

Shut  down  the  marble  door, 

And  leave  me  !     Let  me  sleep  ; 

But  deep,  deep, 

Never  to  waken  more  ! 


THY  JOY  IN  SORROW 

GIVE  me  thy  joy  in  sorrow,  gracious  Lord, 
And  sorrow's  self  shall  like  to  joy  appear  ! 
Although  the  world  should  waver  in  its 

sphere 

I  tremble  not  if  Thou  thy  peace  afford  ; 
But,  Thou  withdrawn,  I  am  but  as  a  chord 
That  vibrates  to  the  pulse  of  hope  and  fear  : 
Nor  rest  I  more  than  harps  which  to  the 


CohmsfKnti 

Must  answer  when  we  place  their  tuneful 
board 

Against  the  blast,  which  thrill  unmeaning 
woe 

Even  in  their  sweetness.    So  no  earthly  wing 

E'er  sweeps  me  but  to  sadden.  Oh,  place 
Thou 

My  heart  beyond  the  world's  sad  vibrat- 
ing— 

And  where  but  in  Thyself  ?     Oh,  circle  mes 

That  I  may  feel  no  touches  save  of  Thee. 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  CROSS 

WHENE'ER    across    this    sinful    flesh    of 

mine 
I  draw  the  Holy  Sign, 


All  good  thoughts  stir  within  me,  and  re- 
new 

Their  slumbering  strength  divine  ; 
Till  there  springs  up  a  courage  high  and  true 

To  suffer  and  to  do. 


JOHN   HENRY  NEWMAN 


59 


And   who   shall    say,    but   hateful   spirits 

around, 

For  their  brief  hour  unbound, 
Shudder  to  see,  and  wail  their  overthrow  ? 

While  on  far  heathen  ground 
Some   lonely  Saint   hails   the  fresh   odor, 

though 
Its  source  he  cannot  know. 

ENGLAND 

TYRE  of  the  West,  and  glorying  in  the  name 

More  than  in  Faith's  pure  fame  ! 
0  trust  not  crafty  fort  nor  rock  renown'd 

Earn'd  upon  hostile  ground  ; 
Wielding  Trade's  master-keys,  at  thy  proud 

will 

To  lock  or  loose  its  waters,  England  !  trust 
not  still. 

Dread  thine  own  power  !     Since  haughty 

Babel's  prime, 

High  towers  have  been  man's  crime. 
Since  her  hoar  age,  when  the  huge  moat 

lay  bare, 

Strongholds  have  been  man's  snare. 
Thy  nest  is  in  the  crags;  ah,  refuge  frail  ! 
Mad  counsel  in  its  hour,  or  traitors,  will 
prevail. 

He  who  scann'd  Sodom  for  His  righteous 

men 

Still  spares  thee  for  thy  ten  ; 
But,   should   vain   tongues    the    Bride    of 

Heaven  defy, 
He  will  not  pass  thee  by  ; 
For,  as  earth's  kings  welcome  their  spotless 

guest, 
So  gives  He  them  by  turn,  to  suffer  or  be 

blest. 

REVERSES 

WHEN  mirth  is  full  and  free, 
Some  sudden  gloom  shall  be  ; 
When  haughty  power  mounts  high, 
The  Watcher's  axe  is  nigh. 
All  growth  has  bound  ;  when  greatest  found, 
It  hastes  to  die. 

When  the  rich  town,  that  long 
Has  lain  its  huts  among, 
Uprears  its  pageants  vast, 
And  vaunts  —  it  shall  not  last  ! 
Bright  tints  that  shine  are  but  a  sign 
Of  summer  past. 


And  when  thine  eye  surveys, 
With  fond  adoring  gaze, 
And  yearning  heart,  thy  friend, 
Love  to  its  grave  doth  tend. 
All  gifts  below,  save  Truth,  but  grow 
Towards  an  end. 

THE   PILLAR   OF   THE   CLOUD 

LEAD,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling 

gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
The   night    is  dark,  and  I  am   far  from 

home  — 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 

Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  'scene,  —  one  step  enough  for 
me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  pray'd  that  Thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on. 
I  lov'd  to  choose   and  see  my  path  ;  but 

now 

Lead  Thou  me  on  ! 
I    lov'd    the    garish    day,   and,    spite    of 

fears, 

Pride  rul'd  my  will :  remember  not  past 
years. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  bless'd  me,  sure  it 

still 

Will  lead  me  on, 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent, 

till 

The  night  is  gone  ; 
And    with    the    morn    those   angel  faces 

smile 
Which  I  have  lov'd  long  since,  and  lost 

awhile. 

THE  ELEMENTS 
(A  TRAGIC  CHORUS) 

MAN  is' permitted  much 

To  scan  and  learn 

In  Nature's  frame  ; 
Till  he  well-nigh  can  tame 
Brute  mischiefs,  and  can  touch 
Invisible  things,  and  turn 
All  warring  ills  to  purposes  of  good. 
Thus,  as  a  god  below, 

He  can  control, 

And  harmonize,  what  seems  amiss  to  flow 
As  sever'd  from  the  whole 
And  dimly  understood. 


6o 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


But  o'er  the  elements 
One  Hand  alone, 
One  Hand  has  sway. 
What  influence  day  by  day 
In  straiter  belt  prevents 
The  impious  Ocean,  thrown 
Alternate  o'er  the  ever-sounding  shore  ? 
Or  who  has  eye  to  trace 

How  the  Plague  came  ? 
Forerun  the  doublings  of  the  Tempest's 

race  ? 

Or  the  Air's  weight  and  flame 
On  a  set  scale  explore  ? 


Thus  God  has  will'd 
That  man,  when  fully  skill'd, 
Still  gropes  in  twilight  dim; 
Encompass'd  all  his  hours 

By  fearfullest  powers 
Inflexible  to  him. 
That  so  he  may  discern 

His  feebleness, 
And  e'en  for  earth's  success 
To  Him  in  wisdom  turn, 
Who  holds   for  us   the   keys  of  either 

home, 
Earth  and  the  world  to  come. 


Jtata  Cokn&ttc 


FROM   "PHANTASMION" 

ONE   FACE  ALONE 

ONE  face  alone,  one  face  alone, 

These  eyes  require  ; 
But,  when  that  long'd-for  sight  is  shown, 

What  fatal  fire 
Shoots  through  my  veins  a  keen  and  liquid 

flame, 
That  melts  each  fibre  of  my  wasting  frame! 

One  voice  alone,  one  voice  alone, 

I  pine  to  hear  ; 
But,  when  its  meek  mellifluous  tone 

Usurps  mine  ear, 
Those  slavish   chains  about   my   soul   are 

wound, 

Which  ne'er,  till  death  itself,  can  be  un- 
bound. 

One  gentle  hand,  one  gentle  hand, 

I  fain  would  hold  ; 
But,  when  it  seems  at  my  command, 

My  own  grows  cold  ; 


Then  low  to  earth  I  bend  in  sickly  swoon, 
Like    lilies    drooping  'mid    the   blaze    of 
noon. 

HE  CAME  UNLOOK'D  FOR 

HE  came  unlook'd  for,  undesir'd, 
A  sunrise  in  the  northern  sky, 
More  than  the  brightest  dawn  admir'd, 
To  shine  and  then  forever  fly. 

His  love,  conferr'd  without  a  claim, 
Perchance  was  like  the  fitful  blaze, 
Which  lives  to  light  a  steadier  flame, 
And,  while  that  strengthens,  fast  decays. 

Glad  fawn  along  the  forest  springing, 
Gay  birds  that  breeze-like  stir  the  leaves, 
Why  hither  haste,  no  message  bringing, 
To  solace  one  that  deeply  grieves  ? 

Thou  star  that  dost  the  skies  adorn, 
So  brightly  heralding  the  day, 
Bring  one  more  welcome  than  the  morn3 
Or  still  in  night's  dark  prison  stay. 


AS   YONDER   LAMP 

As  yonder  lamp  in  my  vacated  room 
With  arduous  flame  disputes  the  darksome 

night, 
And  can,  with  its  involuntary  light, 


But  lifeless  things  that  near  it  stand,  illume; 

Yet  all  the  while  it  doth  itself  consume  ; 

And,  ere  the  sun  begin  its  heavenly  height 

With  courier  beams  that  meet  the  shep- 
herd's sight, 

There,  whence  its  life  arose,  shall  be  its 
tomb  :  — 


WHITEHEAD  —  STERLING 


61 


So  wastes  my  life  away.     Perforce  confin'd 
To  common  things,  a  limit  to  its  sphere, 
It  shines  on  worthless  trifles  undesign'd, 


With  fainter  ray  each  hour  imprison'd  here. 
Alas  !  to  know  that  the  consuming  mind 
Shall  leave  its  lamp  cold,  ere  the  sun  appear! 


SHAKESPEARE 

How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to 

rest 
The  hours  and  cares  that  mov'd  a  great 

man's  breast ! 
Though  naught  of  all  we  saw  the  grave  may 

spare, 

His  life  pervades  the  world's  impregnate  air; 
Though  Shakespeare's  dust  beneath  our 

footsteps  lies, 

His  spirit  breathes  amid  his  native  skies  ; 
With  meaning  won  from  him  forever  glows 
Each  air  that  England   feels,  and  star  it 

knows  ; 
His  whisper'd  words  from  many  a  mother's 

voice 

Can  make  her  sleeping  child  in  dreams  re- 
joice, 
And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoin'd 

to  earth 
Are  blent  with  rays  of  each  new  morning's 

birth. 

Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 
Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths 

of  kings, 

Of  shore,  and  sea,  and  nature's  daily  round, 
Of  life  that  tills,  and  tombs  that  load  the 

ground, 
His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pace 

by> 

And  haunt  with  living  presence  heart  and 

eye; 

And  tones  from  him  by  other  bosoms  caught 
Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought, 
And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep  impassion'd 

thrill, 

Rouse  custom's  trance,  and  spur  the  falter- 
ing will. 

Above  the  goodly  land  more  his  than  ours 
He  sits  supreme  enthron'd  in  skyey  towers, 
And  sees  the  heroic  brood  of  his  creation 
Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 
O  shaping  brain  !   O  flashing  fancy's  hues  ! 
0   boundless   heart   kept   fresh   by  pity's 
dews  ! 


O  wit  humane  and  blithe  !  O  sense  sublime 
For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  Time  ! 
Transcendent  Form  of  Man  !  in  whom  we 

read 
Mankind's  whole  tale  of  Impulse,  Thought, 

and  Deed  ; 

Amid  the  expanse  of  years  beholding  thee, 
We  know  how  vast  our  world  of  life  may  be  ; 
Wherein,  perchance,  with  aims  as  pure  as 

thine, 
Small  tasks  and  strengths  may  be  no  less 

divine. 

LOUIS    XV 

THE  King  with  all  his  kingly  train 

Had  left  his  Pompadour  behind, 

And  forth  he  rode  in  Senart's  wood 

The  royal  beasts  of  chase  to  find. 

That  day  by  chance  the  Monarch  mused, 

And  turning  suddenly  away. 

He  struck  alone  into  a  path 

That  far  from  crowds  and  courtiers  lay. 

He  saw  the  pale  green  shadows  play 
Upon  the  brown  untrodden  earth  ; 
He  saw  the  birds  around  him  flit 
As  if  he  were  of  peasant  birth  ; 
He  saw  the  trees  that  know  no  king 
But  him  who  bears  a  woodland  axe  ; 
He  thought  not,  but  he  look'd  about 
Like  one  who  skill  in  thinking  lacks. 

Then  close  to  him  a  footstep  fell, 

And  glad  of  human  sound  was  he, 

For  truth  to  say  he  found  himself 

A  weight  from  which  he  fain  would  flee. 

But  that  which  he  would  ne'er  have  guess'd 

Before  him  now  most  plainly  came  ; 

The  man  upon  his  weary  back 

A  coffin  bore  of  rudest  frame. 

"  Why,   who    art   thou  ? "    exclaim'd    the 

King, 

"  And  what  is  that  I  see  thee  bear  ?  " 
"  I  am  a  laborer  in  the  wood, 
And  't  is  a  coffin  for  Pierre. 


62 


MEDITATIVE   POETS 


Close  by  the  royal  hunting-lodge 
You  may  have  often  seen  him  toil ; 
But  he  will  never  work  again, 
And  I  for  him  must  dig  the  soil." 

The  laborer  ne'er  had  seen  the  King, 
And  this  he  thought  was  but  a  man, 
Who  made  at  first  a  moment's  pause, 
And  then  anew  his  talk  began  : 
"  I  think  I  do  remember  now,  — 
He  had  a  dark  and  glancing  eye, 
And  I  have  seen  his  slender  arm 
With  wondrous  blows  the  pick-axe  ply. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  friend,  what  accident 
Can  thus  have  kill'd  our  good  Pierre  ?  " 
"  Oh!  nothing  more  than  usual,  Sir, 
He  died  of  living  upon  air. 
'T  was  hunger  kill'd  the  poor  good  man, 
Who  long  on  empty  hopes  relied  ; 
He  could  not  pay  gabell  and  tax, 
And  feed  his  children,  so  he  died." 

The   man   stopp'd   short,  and  then   went 

on, — 

"  It  is,  you  know,  a  common  thing  ; 
Our  children's  bread  is  eaten  up 
By  Courtiers,  Mistresses,  and  King." 
The  King  look'd  hard  upon  the  man, 
And  afterwards  the  coffin  eyed, 
Then  spurr'd  to  ask  of  Pompadour, 
How  came  it  that  the  peasants  died. 


TO   A    CHILD 

DEAR  child  !  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 
Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 
But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 
Or  on  a  mountain  streamlet's  waves 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 


With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go, 
And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day, 
And  brow  so  calm,  a  home  for  Thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought  ; 
Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 
Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man's  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  tindoubting  mind, 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind  ; 
And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  free, 
How  weak  the  schoolman's  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body's  bliss  to  part ! 
I  hail  thee  Childhood's  very  Lord, 
In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 
A  thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer  ; 
And  thus  to  be  belov'd  and  known 
As  is  a  rushy  fountain's  tone, 
As  is  the  forest's  leafy  shade, 
Or  blackbird's  hidden  serenade  : 
Thou  art  a  flash  that  lights  the  whole  ; 
A  gush  from  Nature's  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  Child  !  within  thee  lives 
A  power  that  deeper  feeling  gives, 
That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air, 
Than  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair  ; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee, 
For  'mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  Heart  and  Will  of  Man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be  ; 
And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 
Ever  within  not  loud  but  clear 
Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear, 
And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 


TO   A   SWALLOW   BUILDING 
UNDER    OUR   EAVES 

THOU  too  hast   travell'd,  little  fluttering 
thing  —   . 


Hast  seen  the  world,  and  now  thy  weary  wing 

Thou  too  must  rest. 
But  much,  my  little  bird,  couldst  thou  but 

tell, 
I'd  give  to  know  why  here  thou  lik'st  so  well 

To  build  thy  nest. 


JANE  CARL YLE  — TRENCH 


For  them  hast  pass'd  fair  places  in  thy  flight ; 
A  world  lay  all  beneath  thee  where  to  light; 

And,  strange  thy  taste, 
Of  all  the  varied  scenes  that  met  thine  eye, 
Of  all  the  spots  for  building  'neath  the  sky, 

To  choose  this  waste. 

Did  fortune  try  thee  ?  was  thy  little  purse 
Perchance   run  low,   and   thou,    afraid  of 

worse, 

Felt  here  secure  ? 
Ah,  no  !  thou  need'st  not  gold,  thou  happy 

one  ! 

Thou  kuow'st  it  not.    Of  all  God's  crea- 
tures, man 
Alone  is  poor. 

What  was  it,  then  ?  some  mystic  turn  of 

thought 
Caught  under  German  eaves,  and  hither 

brought, 

Marring  thine  eye 
For   the   world's   loveliness,   till  thou  art 

grown 

A  sober  thing  that  dost  but  mope  and  moan, 
Not  knowing  why  ? 


Nay,  if  thy  mind  be   sound,   I  need  not 

ask, 
Since  here  I  see  thee  working  at  thy  task 

With  wing  and  beak. 
A  well-laid  scheme  doth  that  small  head 

contain, 
At  which   thou  work'st,  brave  bird,  with 

might  and  main, 
Nor  more  need'st  seek. 

In  truth,  I  rather  take  it  thou  hast  got 
By  instinct  wise  much  sense  about  thy  lot, 

And  hast  small  care 
Whether  an  Eden  or  a  desert  be 
Thy   home,   so   thou  remaiiist   alive,   and 
free 

To  skim  the  air. 

God  speed  thee,  pretty  bird  ;  may  thy  small 

nest 
With  little  ones  all  in  good  time  be  blest. 

I  love  thee  much  ; 

For  well  thou  managest  that  life  of  thine, 
While  I !      Oh,  ask  not  what   I  do   with 

mine  ! 
Would  I  were  such  ! 


AFTER   THE  BATTLE 

WE   crown'd   the   hard-won   heights   at 
length, 

Baptiz'd  in  flame  and  fire  ; 
We  saw  the  foeman's  sullen  strength, 

That  grimly  made  retire  — 

Saw  close  at  hand,  then  saw  more  far 

Beneath  the  battle-smoke 
The  ridges  of  his  shatter'd  war, 

That  broke  and  ever  broke. 

But  one,  an  English  household's  pride, 

Dear  many  ways  to  me, 
Who  climb'd  that  death-path  by  my  side, 

I  sought,  but  could  not  see. 

Last  seen,  what  time  our  foremost  rank 

That  iron  tempest  tore  ; 
He  touch'd,  he  scal'd  the  rampart  bank  — 

Seen  then,  and  seen  no  more. 


fr  €rencf) 

One  friend  to  aid,  I  measur'd  back 
With  him  that  pathway  dread  ; 

No  fear  to  wander  from  our  track  — 
Its  waymarks  English  dead. 

Light   thicken'd  :    but   our   search   was 
crown'd, 

As  we  too  well  divin'd  ; 
And  after  briefest  quest  we  found 

What  we  most  fear'd  to  find. 

His  bosom  with  one  death-shot  riven. 

The  warrior-boy  lay  low  ; 
His  face  was  turn'd  unto  the  heaven, 

His  feet  unto  the  foe. 

As  he  had  fallen  upon  the  plains 

Inviolate  he  lay  ; 
No  ruffian  spoiler's  hand  profane 

Had  touch'd  that  noble  clay. 

And  precious  things  he  still  retain'd, 
Which,  by  one  distant  hearth, 


64 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


Lov'd  tokens  of  the  lov'd,  had  gain'd 
A  worth  beyond  all  worth. 

I  treasur'd  these  for  them  who  yet 

Knew  not  their  mighty  wo  ; 
I  softly  seal'd  his  eyes,  and  set 

One  kiss  upon  his  brow. 

A  decent  grave  we  scoop'd  him,  where 

Less  thickly  lay  the  dead, 
And  decently  compos'd  him  there 

Within  that  narrow  bed. 

O  theme  for  manhood's  bitter  tears  : 

The  beauty  and  the  bloom 
Of  less  than  twenty  summer  years 

Shut  in  that  darksome  tomb  ! 

Of  soldier-sire  the  soldier-son  ; 

Life's  honor'd  eventide 
One  lives  to  close  in  England,  one 

In  maiden  battle  died  : 

And  they,  that    should  have   been  the 
mourn'd, 

The  mourners'  parts  obtain  : 
Such  thoughts  were  ours,  as  we  return'd 

To  earth  its  earth  again. 

Brief  words  we  read  of  faith  and  prayer 

Beside  that  hasty  grave ; 
Then  turn'd  away,  and  left  him  there, 

The  gentle  and  the  brave  : 


I  calling  back  with  thankful  heart, 
With  thoughts  to  peace  allied, 

Hours  when  we  two  had  knelt  apart 
Upon  the  lone  hillside  ; 

And,  comforted,  I  prais'd  the  grace 
Which  him  had  led  to  be 

An  early  seeker  of  that  Face 
Which  he  should  early  see. 


SONNET 

ALL  beautiful  things  bring  sadness,   nor 

alone 

Music,  whereof  that  wisest  poet  spake  ; 
Because  in  us  keen  longings  they  awake 
After  the  good  for  which  we  pine  and  groan, 
From    which    exil'd   we    make    continual 

moan, 

Till  once  again  we  may  our  spirits  slake 
At  those  clear  streams,  which  man  did  first 

forsake, 
When  he  would  dig  for  fountains  of  his 

own. 

All  beauty  makes  us  sad,  yet  not  in  vain  : 
For  who  would  be  ungracious  to  refuse, 
Or  not  to  use,  this  sadness  without  pain, 
Whether  it  flows  upon  us  from  the  hues 
Of   sunset,   from   the   time   of    stars   and 

dews, 
From   the   clear  sky,   or  waters  pure   of 

stain  ? 


THE   OLD   BARON 

HIGH  on  a  leaf-carv'd  ancient  oaken  chair 
The  Norman  Baron  sat  within  his  hall, 
Wearied  with  a  long   chase  by  wold  and 

mere  ; 
His  hunting  spear  was  rear'd  against   the 

wall ; 
Upon   the   hearth-stone  a  large  wood-fire 

blaz'd, 
Crackled,  or  smok'd,  or  hiss'd,  as  the  green 

boughs  were  rais'd. 

Above  an  arch'd  and  iron-studded  door, 
The  grim  escutcheon's  rude  devices  stood  ; 


On  each  side  rear'd  a  black  and  gristly 
boar, 

With  hearts  and  daggers  grav'd  on  grounds 
of  blood, 

And  deep-dyed  gules  o'er  which  plum'd  hel- 
mets frown ; 

Beneath  this  motto  ran,  —  "  Beware  !  I 
trample  down." 

And  high  around  were  suits  of  armor  placed, 
And  shields  triangular,  with  the  wild-boar's 

head  ; 
Arrows,  and  bows,  and  swords  the  rafters 

graced, 
And  red-deer's  antlers  their  wide  branches 

spread ; 


MILLER  —  HANMER  —  HOUGHTON 


A  rough  wolf's  hide  was  uail'd  upon  the  wall, 
Its  white  teeth  clench'd  as  when  it  in  the 
dell  did  fall. 

An    angel-lamp    from   the   carv'd   ceiling 

hung; 
Its  outstretch'd  wings  the  blazing  oil  con- 

tain'd, 
While   its   long    figure    in   the   wide   hall 

swung, 
Blackening  the  roof  to  which  its  arms  were 

chain'd  ; 

The  iron  hair  fell  backward  like  a  veil, 
And  through  the  gusty  door  it  sent  a  weary 

wail. 

The  heavy  arras  flutter'd  in  the  wind 
That  through  the  grated  windows  sweeping 

came, 

And  in  its  foldings  glitter'd  hart  and  hind, 
While  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  kir- 

tled  dame, 


Moved  on  the  curtain'd  waves,  then  sank  in 

shade, 
Just  as   the   fitful   wind  along  the   arras 

played. 

On  the  oak  table,  filled  with  blood-red  wine, 
A  silver  cup  of  quaint  engraving  stood, 
On  which  a  thin-limb'd  stag  of  old  design, 
Chas'd  by  six  long-ear'd  dogs,  made  for  .a 

wood  ; 

Sounding  a  horn  a  huntsman  stood  in  view, 
Whose  swollen  cheeks  uprais'd  the  silver  as 

he  blew. 

At  the  old  Baron's  feet  a  wolf-dog  lay, 
Watching  his  features  with  unflinching  eye  ; 
An  aged  minstrel,  whose  long  locks  were 


* 

On  an  old  harp  his  wither'd  hands  did  try  ; 
A  crimson  banner's  rustling  folds  hung  low, 
And  threw  a  rosy  light  upon  his  wrinkled 
brow. 


THE   PINE    WOODS 

WE  stand  upon  the  moorish  mountain  side, 
From  age  to  age,  a  solemn  company  ; 
There  are  no  voices  in  our  paths,  but  we 
Hear  the  great  whirlwinds  roaring  loud  and 

wide  ; 
And  like  the  sea-waves  have  our  boughs 

replied, 

From  the  beginning,  to  their  stormy  glee  ; 
The  thunder  rolls  above  us,  and  some  tree 


Smites  with  his  bolt,  yet  doth  the  race 
abide, 

Answering  all  times  ;  but  joyous,  when  the 
sun 

Glints  on  the  peaks  that  clouds  no  longer 
bear, 

And  the  young  shoots  to  flourish  have  be- 
gun, 

And  the  quick  seeds  through  the  blue 
odorous  air 

From  the  expanding  cones  fall  one  by  one  ; 

And  silence  as  in  temples  dwelleth  there. 


Horb 

(RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES) 


AN    ENVOY   TO    AN    AMERICAN 
LADY 

BEYOND  the  vague  Atlantic  deep, 
Far  as  the  farthest  prairies  sweep, 
Where  forest-glooms  the  nerve  appal, 
Where  burns  the  radiant  Western  fall, 


One  duty  lies  on  old  and  young,  — 

With  filial  piety  to  guard, 

As  on  its  greenest  native  sward, 

The  glory  of  the  English  tongue. 

That  ample  speech  !     That  subtle  speech  ! 

Apt  for  the  need  of  all  and  each  : 

Strong  to  endure,  yet  prompt  to  bend 

Wherever  human  feelings  tend. 


66 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


Preserve  its  force  —  expand  its  powers  ; 
And  through  the  maze  of  civic  life, 
In  Letters,  Commerce,  even  in  Strife, 
Forget  not  it  is  yours  and  ours. 

THE   BROOK-SIDE 

I  WANDER'D  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill  ; 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still  ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  ; 
I  watch'd  the  long,  long  shade, 
And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 
I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 
For  I  listen'd  for  a  footfall, 


I  listen'd  for  a  word, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not  — 

The  night  came  on  alone, 

The  little  stars  sat,  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 

The  evening  wind  pass'd  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer, 
We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE   BLACK  WALL-FLOWER 

I  FOUND  a  flower  in  a  desolate  plot, 
Where  no  man  wrought,  —  by  a  deserted 

cot, 
Where  no  man   dwelt ;    a  strange,  dark- 

color'd  gem, 

Black  heavy  buds  on  a  pale  leafless  stem. 
I  pluck'd  it,  wondering,  and  with  it  hied 
To  my  brave  May,  and  showing  it  I  cried  : 
"  Look,  what  a  dismal   flower  !    did  ever 

bloom, 
Born  of   our  earth  and  air,  wear  such  a 

gloom  ? 

It  looks  as  it  should  grow  out  of  a  tomb  : 
Is  it  not  mournful  ?  "     "  No,"  replied  the 

child  ; 

And,  gazing  on  it  thoughtfully,  she  smil'd. 
She  knows  each  word  of  that  great  book  of 

God, 
Spread  out  between  the  blue  sky  and  the 

sod  : 
"  There  are  no  mournful  flowers  —  they  are 

all  glad ; 
This  is  a  solemn  one,  but  not  a  sad." 


Hemfcfe 


Lo  !  with  the  dawn  the  black  buds  open'd 

slowly. 

Within  each  cup  a  color  deep  and  holy, 
As  sacrificial  blood,  glow'd  rich  and  red, 
And   through   the  velvet   tissue   mantling 

spread  ; 
While  in  the  midst  of  this  dark  crimson 

heat 
A   precious   golden   heart   did   throb    and 

beat ; 
Through  ruby  leaves  the  morning  light  did 

shine, 

Each  mournful  bud  had  grown  a  flow'r  di- 
vine ; 

And  bitter  sweet  to  senses  and  to  soul, 
A  breathing  came  from  them,  that  fill'd  the 

whole 
Of    the   surrounding    tranced    and    sunny 

air 
With   its  strange   fragrance,  like  a  silent 

prayer. 
Then   cried   I,  "From   the   earth's  whole 

wreath  I  '11  borrow 
No  flower  but  thee  !  thou  exquisite  type  of 

sorrow  !  " 


KEMBLE—  ALFORD  —  MITFORD 


67 


FAITH 

BETTER  trust  all  and  be  deceiv'd, 
And  weep   that  trust,  and  that  deceiv- 
ing, 


Than  doubt  one  heart  that,  if  believ'd, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth  ! 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 


LADY   MARY 

THOU  wert  fair,  Lady  Mary, 

As  the  lily  in  the  sun  : 
And  fairer  yet  thou  mightest  be, 

Thy  youth  was  but  begun  : 
Thine  eye  was  soft  and  glancing, 

Of  the  deep  bright  blue  ; 
And  on  the  heart  thy  gentle  words 

Fell  lighter  than  the  dew. 

They  found  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 
Even  as  thou  hadst  been  praying, 

At  thine  hour  of  rest : 
The  cold  pale  moon  was  shining 

On  thy  cold  pale  cheek  ; 
And  the  morn  of  the  Nativity 

Had  just  begun  to  break. 

They  carv'd  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

All  of  pure  white  stone, 
With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 

In  the  chancel  all  alone  : 
And  I  saw  thee  when  the  winter  moon 

Shone  on  thy  marble  cheek, 
When  the  morn  of  the  Nativity 

Had  just  begun  to  break. 

But  fchou  kneelest,  Lady  Mary, 
With  thy  palms  upon  thy  breast, 

Among  the  perfect  spirits, 
In  the  land  of  rest  • 


SUlforti 

Thou  art  even  as  they  took  thee 

At  thine  hour  of  prayer, 
Save  the  glory  that  is  on  thee 

From  the  sun  that  shineth  there. 

We  shall  see  thee,  Lady  Mary, 

On  that  shore  unknown, 
A  pure  and  happy  angel 

In  the  presence  of  the  throne  ; 
We  shall  see  thee  when  the  light  divine 

Plays  freshly  on  thy  cheek, 
And  the  resurrection  morning 

Hath  just  begun  to  break. 

COLONOS 

COLONOS  !  can  it  be  that  thou  hast  still 
Thy  laurel  and  thine  olives  and  thy  vine  ? 
Do  thy  close-feather'd  nightingales  yet  trill 
Their  warbles  of  thick-sobbing  song  divine  ? 
Does  the  gold  sheen  of  the  crocus  o'er  thee 

shine 

And  dew-fed  clusters  of  the  daffodil, 
And   round     thy   flowery   knots   Cephisus 

twine, 

Aye  oozing  up  with  many  a  bubbling  rill  ? 
Oh,  might  I  stand  beside  thy  leafy  knoll, 
In  sight  of  the  far-off  city-towers,  and  see 
The  faithful-hearted  pure  Antigone 
Toward  the  dread  precinct,  leading  sad  and 

slow 

That  awful  temple  of  a  kingly  soul, 
Lifted  to  heaven  by  unexampled  woe  ! 


THE   ROMAN    LEGIONS 

OH,  aged  Time  !  how  far,  and  long, 
Travell'd  have  thy  pinions  strong, 
Since  the  masters  of  the  world 


Here  their  eagle-wings  unfurl'd. 
Onward  as  the  legions  pass'd, 
Was  heard  the  Roman  trumpet's  blast, 
And  see  the  mountain  portals  old 
Now  their  opening  gates  unfold. 


68 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


Slow  moves  the  Consul's  car  between 
Bright  glittering  helms  and  axes  keen  ; 
O'er  moonlit  rocks,  and  ramparts  bare, 
High  the  Pretorian  banners  glare. 
Afar  is  heard  the  torrent's  moan, 
The  winds  through  rifted  caverns  groan  • 
The  vulture's  huge  primeval  nest, 
Wild  toss'd  the  pine  its  shatter'd  crest ; 
Darker  the  blackening  forest  frown'd  : 
Strange    murmurs    shook    the    trembling 

ground. 

In  the  old  warrior's  midnight  dream 
Gigantic  shadows  seem'd  to  gleam,  — 
The  Caudine  forks,  and  Cannse's  field 
Again  their  threatening  cohorts  yield. 
Seated  on  the  Thunderer's  throne, 
He  saw  the  shapes  of  gods  unknown, 
Saw  in  Olympus'  golden  hall 
The  volleyed  lightning  harmless  fall, 
.The  great  and  Capitolian  lord 
Dim  sink,  'mid  nameless  forms  abhorr'd. 
Shook  the  Tarpeian  cliff  ;  around 
The  trembling  Augur  felt  the  sound  ; 
Saw,  God  of  Light !  in  deathly  shade, 
Thy  rich,  resplendent  tresses  fade, 


And  from  the  empty  car  of  day 
The  ethereal  coursers  bound  away. 

Then  frequent  rose  the  signal  shrill, 
Oft  heard  on  Alba's  echoing  hill, 
Or  down  the  Apulian  mountains  borne, 
The  mingled  swell  of  trump  and  horn  ; 
The  stern  centurion  frown'd  to  hear 
Unearthly  voices  murmuring  near  ; 
Back  to  his  still  and  Sabine  home 
Fond  thoughts  and  favorite  visions  roam. 
Sweet  Vesta  !  o'er  the  woods  again 
He  views  thy  small  and  silent  fane  ; 
He  sees  the  whitening  torrents  leap 
And  flash  round  Tibur's  mountain-steep  ; 
Sees  Persian  ensigns  wide  unroll'd, 
Barbaric  kings  in  chains  of  gold  ; 
O'er  the  long  Appian's  crowded  street, 
Sees  trophied  arms  and  eagles  meet, 
Through  the  tall  arch  their  triumph  pour, 
Till  rose  the  trumpet's  louder  roar  ; 
From  a  thousand  voices  nigh 
Burst  on  his  ear  the  banner-cry, 
And  o'er  the  concave  rocks,  the  sound 
"  AVRELIVS,"  smote  with  stern  rebound. 


Jpenrp  ^aflam 


WRITTEN    IN    EDINBURGH 

EVEN  thus,  methinks,  a  city  rear'd  should 

be, 

Yea,  an  imperial  city,  that  might  hold 
Five  times  an  hundred  noble  towns  in  fee, 
And  either  with  their  might  of  Babel  old, 
Or  the  rich  Roman  pomp  of  empery 
Might  stand  compare,  highest  in  arts  en- 

roll'd, . 


Highest  in  arms  ;  brave  tenement  for  the 

free, 

Who  never  crouch  to  thrones,  or  sin  for  gold. 
Thus  should  her  towers  be  rais'd  —  with 

vicinage 
Of  clear  bold  hills,   that  curve   her  very 

streets, 

As  if  to  vindicate,  'mid  choicest  seats 
Of  art,  abiding  Nature's  majesty  ; 
And  the  broad  sea  beyond,  in  calm  or  rage 
Chainless  alike,  and  teaching  Liberty. 


€f)oma£  SDc  Clere 


AN   EPICUREAN'S   EPITAPH 

WHEN  from  my  lips  the  last  faint  sigh  is 

blown 

By  Death,  dark  waver  of  Lethean  plumes, 
0 !     press    not    then     with     monumental 

stone 


This  forehead  smooth,  nor  weigh  me  down 

with  glooms 

From  green  bowers,  gray  with  dew, 
Of  Rosemary  and  Rue. 
Choose  for  my  bed  some  bath  of  sculptur'd 

marble 

Wreath'd  with  gay  nymphs  ;  and  lay  me 
—  not  alone  — 


AUBREY   THOMAS   DE   VERE 


69 


Where  sunbeams   fall,  flowers    wave,  and 

light  birds  warble, 
To  those  who  lov'd  me  murmuring  in  soft 

tone, 
''  Here  lies  our  friend,  from  pain  secure  and 

cold  ; 
And  spreads  his  limbs  in  peace  under  the 

sun-warm'd  mould  ! " 


FLOWERS    I   WOULD    BRING 

FLOWERS  I  would  bring  if  flowers  could 

make  thee  fairer, 

And  music,  if  the  Muse  were  dear  to  thee  ; 
(For  loving  these  would  make  thee  love  the 

bearer) 

But  sweetest  songs  forget  their  melody, 
And  loveliest  flowers  would  but  conceal  the 

wearer : — 
A  rose  I  mark'd,  and  might  have  pluck'd  ; 

but  she 
Blush'd  as  she  bent,  imploring  me  to  spare 

her, 

Nor  spoil  her  beauty  by  such  rivalry. 
Alas  !  and  with  what  gifts  shall  I  pursue 

thee, 
What  offerings  bring,  what  treasures  lay 

before  thee  ; 
When  earth  with  all  her  floral  train  doth 

woo  thee, 

And  all  old  poets  and  old  songs  adore  thee  ; 
And  love  to  thee  is  naught ;  from  passionate 

mood 
Secur'd  by  joy's  complacent  plenitude  ! 


HUMAN    LIFE 

SAD  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 
Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet  ; 
Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing, 
In  current  unperceiv'd  because  so  fleet ; 
Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in 

sowing, 
But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopp'd  the 

wheat  ; 
Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in 

blowing  ; 
And   still,  O  still,  their  dying  breath   is 

sweet : 
And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft 

us 
Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter 

still  ; 


And  sweet  our  life's  decline,  for  it  hath  left 

us 

A  nearer  Good  to  cure  an  older  III : 
And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to 

prize  them 
Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  then; 

or  denies  them. 


SORROW 

COUNT  each  affliction,  whether  light  01 
grave, 

God's  messenger  sent  down  to  thee  ;  do 
thou 

With  courtesy  receive  him  ;  rise  and  bow  ; 

And,  ere  his  shadow  pass  thy  threshold, 
crave 

Permission  first  his  heavenly  feet  to  lave  ; 

Then  lay  before  him  all  thou  hast.     Allow 

No  cloud  of  passion  to  usurp  thy  brow, 

Or  mar  thy  hospitality  ;  no  wave 

Of  mortal  tumult  to  obliterate 

The  soul's  marmoreal  calmness.  Grief 
should  be 

Like  joy,  majestic,  equable,  sedate, 

Confirming,  cleansing,  raising,  making  free  ; 

Strong  to  consume  small  troubles  ;  to  com- 
mend 

Great  thoughts,  grave  thoughts,  thoughts 
lasting  to  the  end. 


LOVE'S    SPITE 

You  take  a  town  you  cannot  keep  ; 

And,  forced  in  turn  to  fly, 
O'er  ruins  you  have  made  shall  leap 

Your  deadliest  enemy  ! 
Her  love  is  yours  —  and  be  it  so  — 
But  can  you  keep  it  ?     No,  no,  no  ! 

Upon  her  brow  we  gaz'd  with  awe, 
And  lov'd,  and  wish'd  to  love,  in  vain  >, 

But  when  the  snow  begins  to  thaw 
We  shun  with  scorn  the  miry  plain. 

Women  with  grace  may  yield  :  but  she 

Appear'd  some  Virgin  Deity. 

Bright  was  her  soul  as  Dian's  crest 
Whitening  on  Vesta's  fane  its  sheen  : 

Cold  look'd  she  as  the  waveless  breast 
Of  some  stone  Dian  at  thirteen. 

Men  lov'd  :  but  hope  they  deem'd  to  be 

A  sweet  Impossibility  ! 


MEDITATIVE  POETS 


THE   QUEEN'S   VESPERS 

HALF  kneeling  yet,  and  half  reclining, 
She  held  her  harp  against  her  knees  : 
Aloft  the  ruddy  roofs  were  shining, 

And  sunset  touch'd  the  trees. 
From  the  gold  border  gleam'd  like  snow 
Her  foot  :  a  crown  enrich'd  her  brow  : 
Dark  gems  confiu'd  that  crimson  vest 
Close-moulded  on  her  neck  and  breast. 

In  silence  lay  the  cloistral  court 

And  shadows  of  the  convent  towers  : 
Well  order'd  now  in  stately  sort 
Those  royal  halls  and  bowers. 
The  choral  chaunt  had  just  swept  by  ; 
Bright  arms  lay  quivering  yet  on  high  : 
Thereon  the  warriors  gaz'd,  and  then 
Glanced  lightly  at  the  Queen  again. 

While  from  her  lip  the  wild  hymn  floated, 

Such  grace  in  those  uplifted  eyes 
And  sweet,  half  absent  looks,  they  noted 

That,  surely,  through  the  skies 
A  Spirit,  they  deem'd,  flew  forward  ever 
Above  that  song's  perpetual  river, 
And,  smiling  from  its  joyous  track, 
Upon  her  heavenly  face  look'd  back. 


CARDINAL   MANNING 

I  LEARN'D  his  greatness  first  at  Lavington  : 
The  inoon  had  early  sought   her  bed   of 

brine, 

But  we  discours'd  till  now  each  starry  sign 
Had   sunk  :    our  theme  was  one  and  one 

alone  : 
"  Two  minds  supreme,"  he  said,  "  our  earth 

has  known  ; 
One   sang  in  science ;  one  serv'd  God  in 

songj 


Aquinas  —  Dante."      Slowly  in   me    grew 

strong 
A  thought,  "  These  two  great  minde  in  him 

are  one  ; 
'  Lord,  what  shall  this  man  do  ?  ' "'     Later 

at  Rome 

Beside  the  dust  of  Peter  and  of  Paul 
Eight  hundred  mitred  sires  of  Christendom 
In  Council  sat.     I  mark'd  him  'mid  them 

all; 

I  thought  of  that  long  night  in  years  gone  by 
And  cried,  "  At  last  my  question  meets  re- 

ply." 

SONG 

SEEK  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  while  yet  't  is  dark 

Upon  the  wood  ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard  won  : 
Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong 

hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 

Her  soul  reposes  I 
Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man  !  true  knight ! 

The  clash  of  arms 

Shall  more  prevail  than  whisper'd  tale, 
To  win  her  charms. 

The  warrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name  ; 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame  : 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free,  — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 

Man-shap'd  like  thee. 


TO   IMPERIA 

THOU  art  not,  and  thou  never  canst  be  mine  ; 

The  die  of  fate  for  me  is  thrown, 

And  thou  art  made 

Ho  more  to  me  than  some  resplendent  shade 


Flung  on  the  canvas  by  old  art  divine  ; 

Or  vision  of  shap'd  stone  ; 

Or  the  far  glory  of  some  starry  sign 

Which  hath  a  beauty  unapproachable 

To  aught  but  sight,  —  a  throne 

High  in  the  heavens  and  out  of  reach  , 

Therefore  with  this  low  speech 


THOMAS    BURBIDGE 


I  bid  thee  now  a  long  and  last  farewell 
Ere  I  depart,  in  busy  crowds  to  dwell, 
Yet  be  alone. 

All  pleasures  of  this  pleasant  Earth  be 
thine  ! 

Yea,  let  her  servants  fondly  press 

Unto  thy  feet, 

Bearing  all  sights  most  fair,  all  scents  most 
sweet  : 

Spring,  playing  with  her  wreath  of  budded 
vine  ; 

Summer,  with  stately  tress 

Prink'd  with  green  wheat-ears  and  the 
white  corn-bine  ; 

And  Autumn,  crown'd  from  the  yellow 
forest-tree  ; 

—  And  Winter,  in  his  dress 

Begemm'd  with  icicles,  from  snow  dead- 
white 

Shooting  their  wondrous  light  ; 

These  be  thine  ever.     But  I  ask  of  thee 

One  blessing  only  to  beseech  for  me,  — 

Forge  tfulness. 

IF    I    DESIRE 

IF  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs  • 

To  throw  a  merry  hour  away, 

Comes  Love  unto  me,  and  my  wrongs 
In  careful  tale  he  doth  display, 

And  asks  me  how  I  stand  for  singing 

While  I  my  helpless  hands  am  wringing. 

And  then  another  time  if  I 

A  noon  in  shady  bower  would  pass, 
Comes  he  with  stealthy  gestures  sly 

And  flinging  down  upon  the  grass, 
Quoth  he  to  me  :  My  master  dear, 
Think  of  this  noontide  such  a  year  ! 

And  if  elsewhere  I  lay  my  head 
On  pillow  with  intent  to  sleep, 

Lies  Love  beside  me  on  the  bed, 

And  gives  me  ancient  words  to  keep  ; 

Says  he  :  These  looks,  these  tokens  number, 

May  be,  they  '11  help  you  to  a  slumber. 

So  every  time  when  I  would  yield 
An  hour  to  quiet,  comes  he  still ; 

And  hunts  up  every  sign  conceal'd 
And  every  outward  sign  of  ill  ; 

And  gives  me  his  sad  face's  pleasures 

For  merriment's  or  sleep's  or  leisure's. 


MOTHER'S    LOVE 

HE  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  Boy, 

That  you  could  never  tell 

If  't  was  a  madman's  voice  you  heard, 

Or  if  the  spirit  of  a  bird 

Within  his  heart  did  dwell  : 

A  bird  that  dallies  with  his  voice 

Among  the  matted  branches  ; 

Or  on  the  free  blue  air  his  note 

To  pierce,  and  fall,  and  rise,  and  float, 

With  bolder  utterance  launches. 

None  ever  was  so  sweet  as  he, 

The  boy  that  wildly  sang  to  me  ; 

Though  toilsome  was  the  way  and  long, 

He  led  me  not  to  lose  the  song. 

But  when  again  we  stood  below 

The  unhidden  sky,  his  feet 

Grew  slacker,  and  his  note  more  slow, 

But  more  than  doubly  sweet. 

He  led  me  then  a  little  way 

Athwart  the  barren  moor, 

And  then  he  stayed  and  bade  me  stay 

Beside  a  cottage  door  ; 

I  could  have  stayed  of  mine  own  will, 

In  truth,  my  eye  and  heart  to  fill 

With  the  sweet  sight  which  I  saw  there 

At  the  dwelling  of  the  cottager. 

A  little  in  the  doorway  sitting, 

The  mother  plied  her  busy  knitting, 

And  her  cheek  so  softly  smil'd, 

You  might  be  sure,  although  her  gaze 

Was  on  the  meshes  of  the  lace, 

Yet  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child. 

But  when  the  boy  had  heard  her  voice, 

As  o'er  her  work  she  did  rejoice, 

His  became  silent  altogether, 

And  slily  creeping  by  the  wall, 

He  seiz'd  a  single  plume,  let  fall 

By  some  wild  bird  of  longest  feather  ; 

And  all  a-tremble  with  his  freak, 

He  touch'd  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

Oh,  what  a  loveliness  her  eyes 
Gather  in  that  one  moment's  space, 
While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spies 
Her  darling's  laughing  face  ! 
Oh,  mother's  love  is  glorifying, 
On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying  ; 
In  the  eyes  a  moisten'd  light, 
Softer  than  the  moon  at  night  \ 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


EVENTIDE 

COMES  something  down  with  eventide 
Beside  the  sunset's  golden  bars, 

Beside  the  floating  scents,  beside 
The  twinkling  shadows  of  the  stars. 

Upon  the  river's  rippling  face, 

Flash  after  flash  the  white 
Broke  up  in  many  a  shallow  place  ; 

The  rest  was  soft  and  bright. 

By  chance  my  eye  fell  on  the  stream  ; 

How  many  a  marvellous  power, 
Sleeps    in   us,  —  sleeps,   and   doth   not 
dream  ! 

This  knew  I  in  that  hour. 


For  then  my  heart,  so  full  of  strife, 
No  more  was  in  me  stirr'd  ; 

My  life  was  in  the  river's  life, 
And  I  nor  saw  nor  heard. 

I  and  the  river,  we  were  one  : 
The  shade  beneath  the  bank, 

I  felt  it  cool  ;  the  setting  sun 
Into  my  spirit  sank. 

A  rushing  thing  in  power  serene 

I  was  ',  the  mystery 
I  felt  of  having  ever  been 

And  being  still  to  be. 

Was  it  a  moment  or  an  hour  ? 

I  knew  not  ;  but  I  mourn'd 
When  from  that  realm  of  awful  power 

I  to  these  fields  return'd. 


l)cnn; 


TIME  AND   DEATH 


I  SAW  old  Time,  destroyer  of  mankind  ; 
Calm,  stern,  and  cold  he  sate,  and  often 

shook 

And  turn'd  his  glass,  nor  ever  car'd  to  look 
How  many  of  life's  sands  were  still  behind. 
And  there  was  Death,  his  page,  aghast  to 

find 

How  tremblingly,  like  aspens  o'er  a  brook, 
His  blunted  dart  fell  harmless  ;  so  he  took 


His  master's  scythe,  and  idly  smote  the 
wind. 

Smite  on,  thou  gloomy  one,  with  powerless 
aim  ! 

For  Sin,  thy  mother,  at  her  dying  breath 

Wither'd  that  arm,  and  left  thee  but  a  name. 

Hope  clos'd  the  grave,  when  He  of  Naza- 
reth, 

Who  led  captivity  His  captive,  came 

And  vanquish'd  the  great  conquerors,  Time 
and  Death. 


ENGLISH    SONG   WRITERS 
(See  also:  B.  W.   PROCTER.) 


CHAMPAGNE   ROS£ 

LILY  on  liquid  roses  floating  — 

So  floats  yon  foam  o'er  pink  champagne  : 
Fain  would  I  join  such  pleasant  boating, 

And  prove  that  ruby  main, 
And  float  away  on  wine  i 


Those    seas    are     dangerous,    graybeardi 

swear, 

Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet's  brim  ; 
And  true  it  is  they  drown  old  care  — 
But  what  care  we  for  him, 
So  we  but  float  on  wine  I 


KENYON  —  WILLIAM   HOWITT  —  BAYLY 


73 


And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain, 
Who  sober  cross  the  Stygian  ferry  ; 

But  only  make  our  Styx  champagne, 
And  we  shall  cross  right  merry, 
Floating  away  in  wine  I 


Old  Charon's  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 
Then  gaily  row  his  boat  from  shore  ; 

While  we,  and  every  jovial  fellow, 
Hear,  unconcern'd,  the  oar 
That  dips  itself  in  wine  ! 


JEiHiam  Ipotoitt 


THE     DEPARTURE     OF     THE 
SWALLOW 

AND  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

Which  way  sail'd  it  ? 
Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go  : 

But  who  doth  hear 

Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 


So  the  freed  spirit  flies  ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 

It  steals  away 
Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ?  wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

'Tis  all  unknown  : 

We  feel  alone 
That  a  void  is  left  below. 


SHE    WORE    A    WREATH     OF 
ROSES 

SHE  wore  a  wreath  of  roses 

The  night  that  first  we  met  J 
Her  lovely  face  was  smiling 

Beneath  her  curls  of  jet. 
Her  footstep  had  the  lightness, 

Her  voice  the  joyous  tone,  — • 
The  tokens  of  a  youthful  heart, 

Where  sorrow  is  unknown. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
With  the  wreath  of  summer  flowers 

Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

A  wreath  of  orange-blossoms, 

When  next  we  met,  she  wore  ; 
The  expression  of  her  features 

Was  more  thoughtful  than  before  ; 
And  standing  by  her  side  was  one 

Who  strove,  and  not  in  vain, 
To  soothe  her,  leaving  that  dear  home 

She  ne'er  might  view  again. 
I  saw  her  but  a  moment, 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 


With  the  wreath  of  orange-blossoms 
Upon  her  snowy  brow. 

And  once  again  I  see  that  brow  ; 

No  bridal-wreath  is  there, 
The  widow's  sombre  cap  conceals 

Her  once  luxuriant  hair. 
She  weeps  in  silent  solitude, 

And  there  is  no  one  near 
To  press  her  hand  within  his  own, 

And  wipe  away  the  tear. 
I  see  her  broken-hearted  ; 

Yet  methinks  I  see  her  now, 
In  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty, 

With  a  garland  on  her  brow. 

OH!  WHERE   DO   FAIRIES  HIDE 
THEIR   HEADS  ? 

OH  !  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads 

When  snow  lies  on  the  hills, 
When  frost  has  spoil'd  their  mossy  beds, 

And  crystalliz'd  their  rills  ? 
Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 

In  circles  o'er  the  plain  ; 
And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 


74 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


Perhaps,  in  small,  blue  diving-bells, 

They  plunge  beneath  the  waves, 
Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 

That  lie  in  coral  caves  ; 
Perhaps,  in  red  Vesuvius, 

Carousals  they  maintain  ; 
And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 


When  they  return  there  will  be  mirth, 

And  music  in  the  air, 
And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  everywhere. 
The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain  ; 
No  key-hole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 


THE   SEA   FOWLER 

THE  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the 
fisher  hath  the  sea  ; 

But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  be- 
long alone  to  me. 

The  baron  hunts  the  running  deer,  the 
fisher  nets  the  brine  ; 

But  every  bird  that  builds  a  nest  on  ocean- 
cliffs  is  mine. 

Come  on  then,  Jock  and  Alick,  let 's  to  the 

sea-rocks  bold  : 
I  was  train'd  to  take  the  sea-fowl  ere  I  was 

five  years  old. 

The  wild  sea  roars,  and  lashes  the  granite 

crags  below, 
And  round  the  misty  islets  the  loud,  strong 

tempests  blow. 

And  let  them  blow  !  Roar  wind  and  wave, 
they  shall  not  me  dismay  ; 

I  Ve  faced  the  eagle  in  her  nest  and  snatch'd 
her  young  away. 

The  eagle  shall  not  build  her  nest,  proud 
bird  although  she  be, 

Nor  yet  the  strong-wing'd  cormorant,  with- 
out the  leave  of  me. 

The  eider-duck  has  laid  her  eggs,  the  tern 

doth  hatch  her  young, 
And  the  merry  gull  screams  o'er  her  brood  ; 

but  all  to  rne  belong. 

Away,  then,  in  the  daylight,  and  back  again 

ere  eve  ; 
The  eagle  could  not  rear  her  young,  unless 

I  gave  her  leave. 


^otoitt 

The  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the 
fisher  hath  the  sea  ; 

But  the  rocky  haunts  of  the  sea-fowl  be- 
long alone  to  me. 


CORNFIELDS 

WHEN  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breezes 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down, 

Oh  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 

Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill  ! 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 
And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 

The  pil'd-up  stacks  of  corn  ; 
And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 
All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore. 

I  feel  the  day  —  I  see  the  field, 
The  quivering  of  the  leaves, 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem 

And  reapers  many  a  one, 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke, 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight, 
God's  living  gift  of  love  unto 

The  kind  good  Shunammite  ; 
To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 
And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 


MARY   HOWITT  —  HERVEY 


75 


The  sun-bath'd  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see  ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 


Oh,  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 
How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 

The  reaper-folk,  the  pil'd-up  sheaves, 
To  me  are  like  a  dream. 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 

Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 


€ijoma£  ftifcfcle 


I   THINK   ON   THEE 

I  THINK  on  thee  in  the  night, 

When  all  beside  is  still, 
And  the  moon  comes  out,  with  her  pale,  sad 
light, 

To  sit  on  the  lonely  hill  ; 
When  the  stars  are  all  like  dreams, 

And  the  breezes  all  like  sighs, 
And  there  comes  a  voice  from  the  far-off 
streams 

Like  thy  spirit's  low  replies. 

I  think  on  thee  by  day, 

'Mid  the  cold  and  busy  crowd, 
When  the  laughter  of  the  young  and  gay 

Is  far  too  glad  and  loud. 
I  hear  thy  soft,  sad  tone, 

And  thy  young,  sweet  smile  I  see  : 
My  heart  —  my  heart  were  all  alone, 

But  for  its  dreams  of  thee  ! 

Of  thee  who  wert  so  dear,  — 

And  yet  I  do  not  weep, 
For  thine  eyes  were  stain'd  by  many  a  tear 

Before  they  went  to  sleep  ; 
And,  if  I  haunt  the  past, 

Yet  may  I  not  repine 
That  thou  hast  won  thy  rest,  at  last, 

And  all  the  grief  is  mine. 

I  think  upon  thy  gain, 

Whate'er  to  me  it  cost, 
And  fancy  dwells  with  less  of  pain 

On  all  that  I  have  lost,  — 
Hope,  like  the  cuckoo's  oft-told  tale, 

Alas,  it  wears  her  wing  ! 


And  love  that,  like  the  nightingale, 
Sings  only  in  the  spring. 

Thou  art  my  spirit's  all, 

Just  as  thou  wert  in  youth, 
Still  from  thy  grave  no  shadows  fall 

Upon  my  lonely  truth  ; 
A  taper  yet  above  thy  tomb, 

Since  lost  its  sweeter  rays, 
And  what  is  memory,  through  the  gloom, 

Was  hope,  in  brighter  days. 

I  am  pining  for  the  home 

Where  sorrow  sinks  to  sleep, 
Where  the  weary  and  the  weepers  come, 

And  they  cease  to  toil  and  weep. 
Why  walk  about  with  smiles 

That  each  should  be  a  tear, 
Vain  as  the  summer's  glowing  spoils 

Flung  o'er  an  early  bier  ? 

Oh,  like  those  fairy  things, 

Those  insects  of  the  East, 
That  have  their  beauty  in  their  wings, 

And  shroud  it  while  at  rest ; 
That  fold  their  colors  of  the  sky 

When  earthward  they  alight, 
And  flash  their  splendors  on  the  eye, 

Only  to  take  their  flight ;  — 

I  never  knew  how  dear  thou  wert, 

Till  thou  wert  borne  away  !• 
I  have  it  yet  about  my  heart, 

The  beauty  of  that  day  ! 
As  if  the  robe  thou  wert  to  wear, 

Beyond  the  stars,  were  given 
That  I  might  learn  to  know  it  there; 

And  seek  thee  out,  in  heaven  1 


76 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


TRIPPING    DOWN    THE    FIELD- 
PATH 

TRIPPING  down  the  field-path, 

Early  in  the  morn, 
There  I  met  my  own  love 

'Midst  the  golden  corn  ; 
Autumn  winds  were  blowing, 

As  in  frolic  chase, 
All  her  silken  ringlets 

Backward  from  her  face; 
Little  time  for  speaking 

Had  she,  for  the  wind, 
Bonnet,  scarf,  or  ribbon, 

Ever  swept  behind. 

Still  some  sweet  improvement 

In  her  beauty  shone  ; 
Every  graceful  movement 

Won  me,  —  one  by  one  ! 
As  the  breath  of  Venus 

Seemed  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Blowing  thus  between  us, 

'Midst  the  golden  corn. 
Little  time  for  wooing 

Had  we,  for  the  wind 
Still  kept  on  undoing 

What  we  sought  to  bind. 

Oh  !  that  autumn  morning 

In  my  heart  it  beams, 
Love's  last  look  adorning 

With  its  dream  of  dreams  : 
Still,  like  waters  flowing 

In  the  ocean  shell, 
Sounds  of  breezes  blowing 

In  my  spirit  dwell  ; 
Still  I  see  the  field-path  ;  — 

Would  that  I  could  see 
Her  whose  graceful  beauty 

Lost  is  now  to  me  t 

TAKE  THE  WORLD  AS   IT  IS 

TAKE  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  there  are  good 

and  bad  in  it, 
And  good  and  bad  will  be  from  now  to 

the  end  ; 
And  they,  who  expect  to  make  saints  in  a 

minute, 

Are  in  danger  of  marring  more  hearts 
than  they  '11  mend. 


If  ye  wish  to  be  happy  ne'er  seek  for  the 

faults, 
Or   you  're   sure   to   find   something   or 

other  amiss  ; 
'Mid   much  that  debases,  and   much   that 

exalts, 
The  world  's  not  a  bad  one  if  left  as  it  is. 

Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  if  the  surface  be 

shining, 

Ne'er  rake  up  the  sediment  hidden  be- 
low ! 
There  's  wisdom  in  this,  but  there  's  none 

in  repining 
O'er  things  which  can  rarely  be  mended, 

we  know. 
There 's   beauty  around   us,  which   let   us 

enjoy  ; 
And  chide  not,  unless  it  may  be  with  a 

kiss  ; 
Though  Earth 's  not  the  Heaven  we  thought 

when  a  boy, 

There  's  something  to  live  for,  if  ta'en  %s 
it  is. 

Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  with  its  smiles 

and  its  sorrow, 

Its   love  and  its  friendship,  —  its  false- 
hood and  truth, 
Its  schemes  that  depend  on  the  breath  of 

to-morrow, 
Its  hopes  which  pass  by  like  the  dreams 

of  our  youth  : 
Yet,  oh  !  whilst  the  light  of  affection  may 

shine, 
The  heart  in  itself  hath  a  fountain  of 

bliss  ; 
In  the  worst  there  's  some  spark  of  a  nature 

divine, 

And  the  wisest  and  best  take  the  world 
as  it  is. 

LIFE 

LIFE  's  not  our  own,  —  't  is  but  a  loan 

To  be  repaid  ; 

Soon  the  dark  Comer 's  at  the  door, 
The  debt  is  due  :  the  dream  is  o'er,  — 

Life  's  but  a  shade. 

Thus  all  decline  that  bloom  or  shine, 
Both  star  and  flower  ; 


SWAIN  —  COOK 


77 


'T  is  but  a  little  odor  shed, 
A  light  gone  out,  a  spirit  fled, 
A  funeral  hour. 

Then  let  us  show  a  tranquil  brow 

Whate'er  befalls  ; 
That  we  upon  life's  latest  brink 
May  look  on  Death's  dark  face,  —  and 
think 

An  angel  calls. 

THE    ROSE   THOU    GAV'ST 

THE  rose  thou  gav'st  at  parting  — 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  hour  ? 
The  moon  was  on  the  river, 

The  dew  upon  the  flower  : 
Thy  voice  was  full  of  tenderness, 

But,  ah  !  thy  voice  misleads  ; 
The  rose  is  like  thy  promises, 

Its  thorn  is  like  thy  deeds. 

The  winter  cometh  bleakly, 

And  dark  the  time  must  be  ; 
Bnt  I  can  deem  it  summer 

To  what  thou  'st  prov'd  to  me. 
The  snow  that  meets  the  sunlight 

Soon  hastens  from  the  scene  ; 
But  melting  snow  is  lasting, 

To  what  thy  faith  hath  been. 


'TWAS  JUST   BEFORE  THE  HAY 
WAS  MOWN 

'T  WAS  just  before  the  hay  was  mown, 

The  season  had  been  wet  and  cold, 
When  my  good  dame  began  to  groan, 

And  speak  of  days  and  years  of  old  : 
Ye  were  a  young  man  then,  and  gay, 

And  raven  black  your  handsome  hair  ; 
Ah  !  Time  steals  many  a  grace  away, 

And  leaves  us  many  a  grief  to  bear. 

Tush  !  tush  !  said  I,  we  've  had  our  time, 

And  if 't  were  here  again  't  would  go  ; 
The  youngest  cannot  keep  their  prime, 

The  darkest  head  some  gray  must  show. 
We  Ve  been  together  forty  years, 

And  though  it  seem  but  like  a  day, 
We  've  much  less  cause,  dear  dame,  for 
tears, 

Than  many  who  have  trod  life's  way. 

Goodman,  said  she,  ye  're  always  right, 

And  't  is  a  pride  to  hear  your  tongue  ; 
And  though  your  fine  old  head  be  white, 

'T  is  dear  to  me  as  when  't  were  young. 
So  give  your  hand,  —  't  was  never  shown 

But  in  affection  unto  me  ; 
And  I  shall  be  beneath  the  stone, 

And  lifeless,  when  I  love  not  thee. 


;a  Cooh 


THE  QUIET  EYE 

THE  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one 

That  dazzles  with  its  lightning  gleam  ; 
That  dares  to  look  upon  the  sun, 

As  though  it  challenged  brighter  beam. 
That  orb  may  sparkle,  flash,  and  roll  ; 

Its  fire  may  blaze,  its  shaft  may  fly  ; 
But  not  for  me  :  I  prize  the  soul 

That  slumbers  in  a  quiet  eye. 

There  's  something  in  its  placid  shade 

That  tells  of  calm,  unworldly  thought  ; 
Hope  may  be  crowii'd,  or  joy  delay'd  — 

No  dimness  steals,  no  ray  is  caught. 
Its  pensive  language  seems  to  say, 

"  I  know  that  I  must  close  and  die  ; " 
And  death  itself,  come  when  it  may, 

Can  hardly  change  the  quiet  eye. 


There  's  meaning  in  its  steady  glance, 

Of  gentle  blame  or  praising  love, 
That  makes  me  tremble  to  advance 

A   word,   that    meaning   might   re- 
prove. 
The  haughty  threat,  the  fiery  look, 

My  spirit  proudly  can  defy, 
But  never  yet  could  meet  and  brook 

The  upbraiding  of  a  quiet  eye. 

There  's  firmness  in  its  even  light, 

That  augurs  of  a  breast  sincere  : 
And,  oh  !  take  watch  how  ye  excite 

That  firmness  till  it  yield  a  tear. 
Some  bosoms  give  an  easy  sigh, 

Some   drops    of    grief    will    freely 

start, 
But  that  which  sears  the  quiet  eye 

Hath  its  deep  fountain  in  the  heart. 


78 


ENGLISH   SONG  WRITERS 


THE  SEA-CHILD 

HE  crawls  to  the  cliff  and  plays  on  a  brink 
Where  every  eye  but  his  own  would  shrink  ; 
No  music  he  hears  but  the  billow's  noise, 
And  shells  and  weeds  are  his  only  toys. 
No  lullaby  can  the  mother  find 
To  sing  him  to  rest  like  the  moaning  wind  ; 
And  the  louder  it  wails  and  the  fiercer  it 

sweeps, 
The  deeper  he  breathes  and  the  sounder  he 

sleeps. 

And  now  his  wandering  feet  can  reach 
The  rugged  tracks  of  the  desolate  beach  ; 
Creeping  about  like  a  Triton  imp, 
To  find  the  haunts  of  the  crab  and  shrimp. 
He  clings,  with  none  to  guide  or  help, 
To  the  furthest  ridge  of  slippery  kelp  ; 
And  his  bold  heart  glows  while  he  stands 

and  mocks 
The  seamew's  cry  on  the  jutting  rocks. 


Few  years  have  wan'd  —  and  now  he  stands 

Bareheaded  on  the  shelving  sands. 

A   boat   is   moor'd,  but   his   young  hands 

cope 

Right  well  with  the  twisted  cable  rope  ; 
He  frees  the  craft,  she  kisses  the  tide  ; 
The  boy  has  cliuib'd  her  beaten  side  : 
She  drifts  —  she    floats  —  he   shouts  with 

glee; 
His  soul  hath  claim'd  its  right  on  the  sea. 

'T  is  vain  to  tell  him  the  howling  breath 
Rides    over  the    waters  with    wreck    and 

death : 

He  '11  say  there  'a  more  of  fear  and  pain 
On  the  plague-ridden  earth  than  the  storm- 

lash'd  main. 

'T  would  be  as  wise  to  spend  thy  power 
In  trying  to  lure  the  bee  from  the  flower, 
The  lark  from  the  sky,  or  the  worm  from 

the  grave, 
As  in  weaning  the  Sea-Child  from  the  wave. 


fteiiliam  Cor  Bennett 


BABY   MAY 

CHEEKS  as  soft  as  July  peaches, 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness  —  round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise, 
Minutes  fill'd  with  shadeless  gladness, 
Minutes  just  as  brimm'd  with  sadness, 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries, 
Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes, 
Lights  and  shadows  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  Autumn  corn, 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion 
Making  every  limb  all  motion  — 
Catching  up  of  legs  and  arms, 
Throwings  back  arid  small  alarms, 
Clutching  fingers  —  straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works, 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings, 
Mother's  ever  new  surprisings, 
Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under, 
Tiny  scorns  of  smil'd  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings, 


Mischiefs  done  with  such  a  winning 
Archness,  that  we  prize  such  sinning, 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses, 
Graspings  small  at  all  that  passes, 
Pullings  off  of  all  that 's  able 
To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table  ; 
Silences  —  small  meditations, 
Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations, 
Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 
In  a  tongue  that  nothing  teaches, 
All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  guessing  ; 
Slumbers  —  such  sweet  angel-seemings, 
That  we  'd  ever  have  such  dreamiugs, 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we  'd  always  have  thee  waking  ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure, 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure, 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness, 
Joy  in  care  —  delight  in  sadness, 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness, 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness, 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be  — 
That 's  May  Bennett,  that 's  my  baby* 


BENNETT— LAING 


79 


BE   MINE,   AND    I   WILL   GIVE 

THY   NAME 

BE  mine,  and  I  will  give  thy  name 

To  Memory's  care, 
So  well,  that  it  shall  breathe,  with  fame, 

Immortal  air, 
That   time  and  change  and  death  shall 

be 
Scorn'd  by  the  life  I  give  to  thee. 

I  will  not,  like  the  sculptor,  trust 

Thy  shape  to  stone  ; 
That,  years  shall  crumble  into  dust, 

Its  form  unknown  ; 
No  —  the  white  statue's  life  shall  be 
Short,  to  the  life  I  '11  give  to  thee. 

Not  to  the  canvas  worms  may  fret 

Thy  charms  I  '11  give  ; 
Soon  shall  the  world  those  charms  for- 
get, 

If  there  they  live  ; 
The  life  that  colors  lend  shall  be 
Poor  to  the  life  I  '11  give  to  thee. 


For  thou  shalt  live,  defying  time 

And  mocking  death, 
In  music  on  —  O  life  sublime  !  — 

A  nation's  breath  ; 
Love,  in  a  people's  songs,  shall  be 
The  eternal  life  I  '11  give  to  thee. 

A   CHRISTMAS    SONG 

BLOW,  wind,  blow, 
Sing  through  yard  and  shroud  ; 
Pipe  it  shrilly  and  loud, 

Aloft  as  well  as  below  ; 
Sing  in  my  sailor's  ear 
The  song  I  sing  to  you, 
"  Come  home,  my  sailor  trr.e, 
For  Christmas  that  comes  so  near. " 

Go,  wind,  go, 

Hurry  his  home-bound  sail, 
Through  gusts  that  are  edged  with  hail, 

Through  winter,  and  sleet,  and  snow ; 
Song,  in  my  sailor's  ear, 
Your  shrilling  and  moans  shall  be, 
For  he  knows  they  sing  him  to  me 
And  Christmas  that  comes  so  near. 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY  OF   SCOTLAND 
(See  also:  AYTOUN,  J.  W.  CARLYLE,  MACAULAY,  NICOLL,  SCOTT) 


MY   AIN   WIFE 

I  WADNA  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ; 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see  ; 
A  bonnier  yet  I  've  never  seen, 

A  better  canna  be  — 
1  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ouy  wife  I  see  ! 

O  couthie  is  my  ingle-cheek, 
An'  cheerie  is  my  Jean  ; 


3lahiff 

I  never  see  her  angry  look, 
Nor  hear  her  word  on  ane. 

She  's  gude  wi'  a'  the  neebours  roun* 
An'  aye  gude  wi'  me  — 

I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 
For  ony  wife  I  see. 

An'  O  her  looks  sae  kindlie, 

They  melt  my  heart  outright, 
When  o'er  the  baby  at  her  breast 

She  hangs  wi'  fond  delight  : 
She  looks  intill  its  bonnie  face, 

An'  syne  looks  to  me  — • 
I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife 

For  ony  wife  I  see. 


8o 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY   OF   SCOTLAND 


THE   SOWER'S   SONG 

Now  hands  to  seed-sheet,  boys  ! 

We  step  and  we  cast;  old  Time  's  on  wing; 
And  would  ye  partake  of  Harvest's  joys, 
The  corn  must  be  sown  in  spring. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Old  earth  is  a  pleasure  to  see 

In  sunshiny  cloak  of  red  and  green ; 
The  furrow  lies  fresh,  this  year  will  be 
As  years  that  are  past  have  been. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Old  earth,  receive  this  corn,* 

The  son  of  six  thousand  golden  sires; 
All  these  on  thy  kindly  breast  were  born ; 
One  more  thy  poor  child  requires. 
Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 

Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 

Now  steady  and  sure  again, 

And  measure  of  stroke  and  step  we  keep; 
Thus  up  and  down  we  cast  our  grain; 
Sow  well  and  you  gladly  reap. 

Fall  gently  and  still,  good  corn, 
Lie  warm  in  thy  earthy  bed ; 
And  stand  so  yellow  some  morn, 
For  beast  and  man  must  be  fed. 


ADIEU 

LET  time  and  chance  combine,  combine, 
Let  time  and  chance  combine; 

The  fairest  love  from  heaven  above, 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine, 

My  dear, 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine. 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone,  and  gone, 

The  past  is  fled  and  gone; 
If  naught  but  pain  to  me  remain, 

I  '11  fare  in  memory  on, 
My  dear, 

I  '11  fare  in  memory  on. 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall,  must  fall, 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall; 
In  weal  or  woe,  in  this  world  below, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all, 
My  dear, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all. 

A  long  road  full  of  pain,  of  pain, 

A  long  road  full  of  pain; 
One     soul,    one     heart,    sworn    ne'er    to 

part,  — 
We  ne'er  can  meet  again, 

My  dear, 
We  ne'er  can  meet  again. 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow,  allow, 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow; 
We  blessed  were  as  the  angels  are,  — 

Adieu  forever  now, 
My  dear, 

Adieu  forever  now. 


ftofeert 


T   IS   SAIR   TO   DREAM 

'T  IS  sair  to  dream  o'  them  we  like, 
That  waking  we  sail  never  see; 

Yet,  oh  !  how  kindly  was  the  smile 
My  laddie  in  my  sleep  gave  me  ! 

I  thought  we  sat  beside  the  burn 

That  wimples  down  the  flowery  glen, 


Where,  in  our  early  days  o'  love, 
We  met  that  ne'er  sail  meet  again  ! 

The  simmer  sun  sank  'neath  the  wave, 
And  gladden'd,  wi'  his  parting  ray, 

The  woodland  wild  and  valley  green, 
Fast  fading  into  gloamin'  grey. 

He  talk'd  of  days  o'  future  joy, 
And  yet  my  heart  was  haflins  sair, 


GILFILLAN  — MOIR 


81 


For  when  his  eye  it  beam'd  on  me, 
A  withering  death-like  glance  was  there  ! 

I  thought  him  dead,  and  then  I  thought 

That  life  was  young  and  love  was  free, 
For  o'«r  our  heads  the  mavis  sang, 

And  hameward  hied  the  janty  bee  ! 
We  pledged  our  love  and  plighted  troth, 

But  cauld,  cauld  was  the  kiss  he  gave, 
When  starting  from  my  dream,  I  found 

His  troth  was  plighted  to  the  grave  ! 

I  canna  weep,  for  hope  is  fled, 

And  nought  would  do  but  silent  mourn, 
Were  't  no  for  dreams  that  should  na  come, 

To  whisper  back  my  love's  return  ; 
'T  is  sair  to  dream  o'  them  we  like, 

That  waking  we  sail  never  see; 
Yet,  oh  !  how  kindly  was  the  smile 

My  laddie  in  my  sleep  gave  me  ! 

THE   EXILE'S    SONG 

OH  !  why  left  I  my  hame  ? 

Why  did  I  cross  the  deep  ? 
Oh  !  why  left  I  the  land 

Where  my  forefathers  sleep  ? 
I  sigh  for  Scotia's  shore, 

And  I  gaze  across  the  sea, 


But  I  canna  get  a  blink 
O'  my  ain  countrie. 

The  palm-tree  waveth  high, 

And  fair  the  myrtle  springs; 
And,  to  the  Indian  maid, 

The  bulbul  sweetly  sings. 
But  I  dinna  see  the  broom 

Wi'  its  tassels  on  the  lee, 
Nor  hear  the  lintie's  sang 

O'  my  ain  countrie. 

Oh  !  here  no  Sabbath  bell 

Awakes  the  Sabbath  morn, 
Nor  song  of  reapers  heard 

Amang  the  yellow  corn  : 
For  the  tyrant's  voice  is  here, 

And  the  wail  of  slaverie; 
But  the  sun  of  freedom  shines 

In  my  ain  countrie. 

There  's  a  hope  for  every  woe, 

And  a  balm  for  every  pain, 
But  the  first  joys  o'  our  heart 

Come  never  back  again. 
There  's  a  track  upon  the  deep, 

And  a  path  across  the  sea; 
But  the  weary  ne'er  return 

To  their  ain  countrie. 


SDatoifc 


CASA'S    DIRGE 


for  us  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Dimm'd  is  our  joyous  hearth; 
O  Casa,  dearer  dust  than  thine 

Ne'er  mix'd  with  mother  earth  ! 
Thou  wert  the  corner-stone  of  love, 

The  keystone  of  our  fate; 
Thou  art  not  !     Heaven  scowls  dark  above, 

And  earth  is  desolate. 

Ocean  may  rave  with  billows  curl'd, 

And  moons  may  wax  and  wane, 
And  fresh  flowers  blossom  ;  but  this  world 

Shall  claim  not  thee  again. 
Clos'd  are  the  eyes  which  bade  rejoice 

Our  hearts  till  love  ran  o'er; 
Thy  smile  is  vanish'd,  and  thy  voice 

Silent  for  evermore. 


Yes  ;   thou  art  gone  —  our  hearth's  de- 
light, 

Our  boy  so  fond  and  dear; 
No  more  thy  smiles  to  glad  our  sight, 

No  more  thy  songs  to  cheer; 
No  more  thy  presence,  like  the  sun, 

To  fill  our  home  with  joy: 
Like  lightning  hath  thy  race  been  run, 

As  bright  as  swift,  fair  boy. 

Now  winter  with  its  snow  departs, 

The  green  leaves  clothe  the  tree; 
But  summer  smiles  not  on  the  hearts 

That  bleed  and  break  for  thee: 
The   young    May    weaves    her    flowery 
crown. 

Her  boughs  in  beauty  wave; 
They  only  shake  their  blossoms  down 

Upon  thy  silent  grave. 


82 


SONGS  AND  BALLADRY  OF  SCOTLAND 


Dear  to  our  souls  is  every  spot 

Where  thy  small  feet  have  trod; 
There  odors,  breath'd  from  Eden,  float, 

And  sainted  is  the  sod ; 
The  wild  bee  with  its  buglet  fine, 

The  blackbird  singing  free, 
Melt  both  thy  mother's  heart  and  mine: 

They  speak  to  us  of  thee  ! 

Only  in  dreams  thou  comest  now 

From  Heaven's  immortal  shore, 
A  glory  round  that  infant  brow, 

Which  Death's  pale  signet  bore: 
'T  was  thy  fond  looks,  't  was  thy  fond  lips, 

That  lent  our  joys  their  tone; 
And  life  is  shaded  with  eclipse, 

Since  thou  from  earth  art  gone. 

Thine  were  the  fond,  endearing  ways, 

That  tenderest  feeling  prove ; 
A  thousand  wiles  to  win  our  praise, 

To  claim  and  keep  our  love; 
Fondness  for  us  thrill'd  all  thy  veins; 

And,  Casa,  can  it  be 
That  nought  of  all  the  past  remains 

Except  vain  tears  for  thee  ? 

Idly  we  watch  thy  form  to  trace 

In  children  on  the  street; 
Vainly,  in  each  familiar  place, 

We  list  thy  pattering  feet; 
Then,  sudden,  o'er  these  fancies  crush'd, 

Despair's  black  pinions  wave; 
We  know  that  sound  for  ever  hush'd: 

We  look  upon  thy  grave. 


O  heavenly  child  of  mortal  birth  ! 

Our  thoughts  of  thee  arise, 
Not  as  a  denizen  of  earth, 

But  inmate  of  the  skies: 
To  feel  that  life  renew'd  is  thine 

A  soothing  balm  imparts ; 
We  quaff  from  out  Faith's  cup  divine, 

And  Sabbath  fills  our  hearts. 

Thou  leanest  where  the  fadeless  wands 

Of  amaranth  bend  o'er; 
Thy  white  wings  brush  the  golden  sands 

Of  Heaven's  refulgent  shore. 
Thy  home  is  where  the  psalm  and  song 

Of  angels  choir  abroad, 
And  blessed  spirits,  all  day  long, 

Bask  round  the  throne  of  God. 

There  chance  and  change  are  not;  the  soul 

Quaffs  bliss  as  from  a  sea, 
And  years,  through  endless  ages,  roll, 

From  sin  and  sorrow  free: 
There  gush  for  aye  fresh  founts  of  joy, 

New  raptures  to  impart; 
Oh  !  dare  we  call  thee  still  our  boy, 

Who  now  a  seraph  art  ? 

A  little  while  —  a  little  while  — 

Ah  !  long  it  cannot  be  ! 
And  thou  again  on  us  wilt  smile, 

Where  angels  smile  on  thee. 
How  selfish  is  the  worldly  heart: 

How  sinful  to  deplore  ! 
Oh  !  that  we  were  where  now  thou  art, 

Not  lost,  but  gone  before. 


JDiHiam 


THE   MITHERLESS    BAIRN 

WHEN  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hush'd  to  their 

hame, 

By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-dame, 
Wha  stands  last  an'  lanely,  an'  sairly  for- 

f  aim  ? 
'T  is  the  puir  dowie  laddie  —  the  mitherless 

bairn ! 

The  mitherless  bairnie  creeps  to  his  lane 

bed; 
Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare 

head ; 


His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  aim, 
An'  lithless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow,  siccan  dreams  hover 

there, 
O'  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kaim  his  dark 

hair  ! 
But  mornin'  brings  clutches,  a'  reckless  an' 

stern, 
That  lo'e  na  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

The  sister,  wha  sang  o'er  his  saftly  rock'd 

bed, 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  whare  their  mammie 

is  laid; 


THOM  —  AIRD  —  BALLANTINE 


While  the  father  toils  sair  his  wee  bannock 

to  earn, 
An'  kens  na  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless 

bairn. 

Her  spirit  that  pass'd  in  yon  hour  of  his 

birth 
Still  watches  his  lone  lorn  wand'rings  on 

earth, 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings    they 

earn 


Wha    couthilie    deal    wi'    the    mitherless 
bairn  ! 

Oh  !  speak  him  na  harshly  —  he  trembles 

the  while, 
He  bends  to  your  biddin',  and  blesses  your 

smile : 
In  the  dark  hour  o'  anguish,  the  heartless 

shall  learn 
That  God  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless 

bairn ! 


Cjjomas 


THE   SWALLOW 


THE   swallow,  bonny  birdie,  comes    sharp 

twittering  o'er  the  sea, 
And  gladly  is  her  carol  heard  for  the  sunny 

days  to  be; 
She  shares  not  with  us  wintry  glooms,  but 

yet,  no  faithless  thing, 
She  hunts  the  summer  o'er  the  earth  with 

wearied  little  wing. 

The  lambs  like  snow  all  nibbling  go  upon 
the  ferny  hills; 

Light  winds  are  in  the  leafy  woods,  and 
birds,  and  bubbling  rills; 

Then  welcome,  little  swallow,  by  our  morn- 
ing lattice  heard, 

Because  thoti  com'st  when  Nature  bids 
bright  days  be  thy  reward  ! 

Thine  be  sweet  mornings  with  the  bee 
that's  out  for  honey-dew; 


And  glowing  be  the  noontide  for  the  grass- 
hopper and  you ; 

And  mellow  shine,  o'er  day's  decline,  the 
sun  to  light  thee  home: 

What  can  molest  thy  airy  nest  ?  sleep  till 
the  day-spring  come  ! 

The  river  blue  that  rushes  through  the  val- 
ley hears  thee  sing, 

And  murmurs  much  beneath  the  touch  of 
thy  light-dipping  wing. 

The  thunder -cloud,  over  us  bowed,  in 
deeper  gloom  is  seen, 

WThen  quick  reliev'd  it  glances  to  thy 
bosom's  silvery  sheen. 

The  silent  Power,  that  brought  thee  back 

with  leading-strings  of  love 
To  haunts  where  first  the  summer  sun  fell 

on  thee  from  above, 
Shall  bind  thee  more  to  come  aye  to  the 

music  of  our  leaves, 
For  here  thy  young,  where  thou  hast  sprung, 

shall  glad  thee  in  our  eaves. 


3Jame£ 


MUCKLE-MOU'D   MEG 

*  OH,  wha  hae  ye  brought  us  hame  now,  my 

brave  lord, 

Strappit  flaught  ower  his  braid  saddle- 
bow ? 


Some  bauld  Border  reiver  to  feast  at  our 
board, 

An'  herry  our  pantry,  I  trow. 
He  's  buirdly  an'  stalwart  in  lith  an'  in  limb; 

Gin  ye  were  his  master  in  war 
The  field  was  a  saft  eneugh  litter  for  him, 

Ye  needna  hae  brought  him  sae  far. 


84 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY  OF   SCOTLAND 


Then  saddle  an'  munt  again,  harness  an' 

dunt  again, 
An'  when  ye  gae  hunt  again,  strike  higher 

game." 

"  Hoot,  whisht  ye,  my  dame,  for  he  comes 

o'  gude  kin, 

An'  boasts  o'  a  lang  pedigree  ; 
This  night  he  maun  share  o'  our  gude  cheer 

within, 

At  morning's  grey  dawn  he  maun  dee. 
He 's   gallant   Wat    Scott,   heir   o'   proud 

Harden  Ha', 

Wha  ettled  our  lands  clear  to  sweep  ; 
But  now  he  is  snug  in  auld  Elibank's  paw, 

An'  shall  swing  frae  our  donjon-keep. 
Tho'  saddle  an'  munt   again,  harness  an' 

dunt  again, 

I  '11  ne'er  when  I  hunt  again  strike  higher 
game." 

"  Is  this  young  Wat  Scott  ?  an'  wad  ye  rax 

his  craig, 

When  our  daughter  is  fey  for  a  man  ? 
Gae,   gaur   the   loun   marry   our   muckle- 

mou'd  Meg, 

Or  we  '11  ne'er  get  the  jaud  aff  our  han' !  " 
"  Od  !  hear  our  gudewife,  she  wad  fain  save 

your  life  ; 

Wat  Scott,  will  ye  marry  or  hang  ?  " 
But  Meg's  muckle  mou  set  young  Wat's 

heart  agrue, 

Wha  swore  to  the  woodie  he  'd  gang. 
Ne'er  saddle  nor  munt  again,  harness  nor 
dunt  again, 


Wat  ne'er  shall  hunt  again,  ne'er  see  his 
hame. 

Syne  muckle-mou'd  Meg  press'd  in  close  to 

his  side, 

An'  blinkit  fu'  sleely  and  kind, 
But  aye  as  Wat  glower'd  at  his  braw  prof- 

fer'd  bride, 

He  shook  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 
"  A  bride  or  a  gallows,  a  rope  or  a  wife  !  " 
The  morning  dawn'd  sunny  and  clear  — 
Wat  boldly  strode  forward  to  part  wi'  his 

life, 

Till  he  saw  Meggy  shedding  a  tear  ; 
Then  saddle  an'  munt  again,   harness  an' 

dunt  again, 
Fain  wad  Wat  hunt  again,  fain  wad  be  hame. 

Meg's  tear  touch'd  his  bosom,  the  gibbet 

frown'd  high, 

An'  slowly  Wat  strode  to  his  doom  ; 
He   gae  a  glance  round  wi'  a  tear  in  his 

eye, 

Meg  shone  like  a  star  through  the  gloom. 
She  rush'd  to  his  arms,  they  were  wed  on 

the  spot, 

An'  lo'ed  ither  muckle  and  lang  ; 
Nae  bauld  border  laird  had  a  wife  like  Wat 

Scott ; 

'T  was  better  to  marry  than  hang. 
So  saddle  an'  munt  again,  harness  an'  dunt 

again, 
Elibank  hunt  again,  Wat 's  snug  at  hame. 

(Compare  R.  BROWNING,  p.  364.) 


n  Stuart 


MY   BATH 

(Scene — Kinnaird  Burn,  near  Pitlochrie.) 

COME  here,  good  people  great  and  small, 

that  wander  far  abroad, 
To    drink  of   drumly   German  wells,  and 

make  a  weary  road 
To  Baden  and  to  Wiesbaden,  and  how  they 

all  are  nam'd, 
To  Carlsbad  and  to  Kissingen,  for  healing 

virtue  fam'd  ; 
Come  stay  at  home,  and  keep  your  feet  from 

dusty  travel  free, 


And  I  will  show  you  what  rare  bath  a  good 
God  gave  to  me  ; 

'T  is  hid  among  the  Highland  hills  beneath 
the  purple  brae, 

With  cooling  freshness  free  to  all,  nor  doc- 
tor's fee  to  pay. 

No  craft  of  mason  made  it  here,  nor  carpen- 
ter, I  wot  ; 

Nor  tinkering  fool  with  hammering  tool  to 
shape  the  charmed  spot  ; 

But  down  the  rocky-breasted  glen  the  foamy 
torrent  falls 

Into  the  amber  caldron  deep,  fenced  round 
with  granite  walls. 


JOHN   STUART  BLACKIE 


Nor  gilded  beam,  nor  pictur'd  dome,  nor 

curtain,  roofs  it  in, 
But  the  blue  sky  rests,  and  white    clouds 

float,  above  the  bubbling  linn, 
Where  God's  own  hand  hath  scoop'd  it  out 

in  Nature's  Titan  hall, 
And  from  her  cloud-fed  fountains  drew  its 

waters  free  to  all. 

Oh  come  and  see  my  Highland  bath,  and 

prove  its  freshening  flood, 
And  spare  to  taint  your  skin  with  swathes 

of  drumly  German  mud  : 
Come  plunge  with  me  into  the  wave  like 

liquid  topaz  fair, 
And  to  the  waters   give   your   back   that 

•  spout  down  bravely  there  ; 
Then  float  upon  the  swirling  flood,  and,  like 

a  glancing  trout, 
Plash  about,  and  dash  about,  and  make  a 

lively  rout, 
And  to  the  gracious  sun  display  the  glory 

of  your  skin, 
As  you  dash  about  and  splash  about  in  the 

foamy-bubbling  linn. 

Oh  come  and   prove  my  bonnie  bath  ;   in 

sooth  't  is  furnish'd  well 
With  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  spreading  ferns, 

all  in  the  rocky  dell, 
And  roses  hanging  from  the  cliff  in  grace 

of  white  and  red, 

And  little  tiny  birches  nodding  lightly  over- 
head, 
And  spiry  larch  with  purple  cones,  and  tips 

of  virgin  green, 
And  leafy  shade  of  hazel  copse  with  sunny 

glints  between  : 
Oh  might  the  Roman  wight  be  here  who 

praised  Bandusia's  well, 
He  'd  find  a  bath  to  Nymphs  more  dear  in 

my  sweet  Highland  dell. 

Some  folks  will  pile  proud  palaces,  and 
some  will  wander  far 

To  scan  the  blinding  of  a  sun,  or  the  blink- 
ing of  a  star  ; 

Some  sweat  through  Af ric's  burning  sands  ; 
and  some  will  vex  their  soul 

To  find  heaven  knows  what  frosty  prize  be- 
neath the  Arctic  pole. 

God  bless  them  all  ;  and  may  they  find  what 
thing  delights  them  well 

In  east  or  west,  or  north  or  south,  —  but  I 
at  home  will  dwell 


Where  fragrant  ferns  their  fronds  uncurl, 
and  healthful  breezes  play, 

And  clear  brown  waters  grandly  swirl  be- 
neath the  purple  brae. 

Oh  come  and  prove  my  Highland  bath,  the 

burn,  and  all  the  glen, 
Hard-toiling  wights   in   dingy  nooks,  and. 

scribes  with  inky  pen, 
Strange  thoughtful  men  with  curious  quests 

that  vex  your  fretful  brains, 
And   scheming  sons  of  trade  who  fear  to 

count  your  slippery  gains  ; 
Come  wander  up  the   burn  with  me,  and 

thread  the  winding  glen, 
And  breathe  the  healthful  power  that  flows 

down  from  the  breezy  Ben, 
And  plunge  you  in  the  deep  brown  pool  ; 

and  from  beneath  the  spray 
You'll  come  forth  like  a  flower  that  blooms 

'neath  freshening  showers  in  May  ! 


THE    EMIGRANT   LASSIE 

As  I  came  wandering  down  Glen  Spean, 
Where  the  braes  are  green  and  grassy, 

With  my  light  step  I  overtook 
A  weary-footed  lassie. 

She  had  one  bundle  on  her  back, 

Another  in  her  hand, 
And  she  walk'd  as  one  who  was  full  loath 

To  travel  from  the  land. 

Quoth  I,  "  My  bonnie  lass  !  "  —  for  she 

Had  hair  of  flowing  gold, 
And  dark  brown  eyes,  and  dainty  limbs, 

Right  pleasant  to  behold  — 

"  My  bonnie  lass,  what  aileth  thee. 

On  this  bright  summer  day, 
To  travel  sad  and  shoeless  thus 

Upon  the  stony  way  ? 

"  I  'm  fresh  and  strong,  and  stoutly  shod, 

And  thou  art  burden'd  so  ; 
March  lightly  now,  and  let  me  bear 

The  bundles  as  we  go." 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  said,  "  that  may  not  be  ; 

What 's  mine  is  mine  to  bear  ; 
Of  good  or  ill,  as  God  may  will, 

I  take  my  portion'd  share." 


86 


SONGS   AND   BALLADRY   OF   SCOTLAND 


"  But  you  have  two,  and  I  have  none  ; 

One  burden  give  to  me  ; 
I  '11  take  that  bundle  from  thy  back 

That  heavier  seems  to  be." 

"  No,  no  ! "  she  said  ;  "  this,  if  you  will, 
That  holds — no  hand  but  mine 

May  bear  its  weight  from  dear  Glen  Spean 
'Cross  the  Atlantic  brine  !  " 

"  Well,  well  !  but  tell  me  what  may  be 

Within  that  precious  load, 
Which  thou  dost  bear  with  such  fine  care 

Along  the  dusty  road  ? 

"  Belike  it  is  some  present  rare 

From  friend  in  parting  hour  ; 
Perhaps,  as  prudent  maidens  wont, 

Thou  tak'st  with  thee  thy  dower." 

She  droop'd  her  head,  and  with  her  hand 

She  gave  a  mournful  wave  : 
"  Oh,  do  not  jest,  dear  sir  !  —  it  is 

Turf  from  my  mother's  grave  !  " 

I  spoke  no  word  :  we  sat  and  wept 

By  the  road-side  together  ; 
No  purer  dew  on  that  bright  day 

Was  dropp'd  upon  the  heather. 

THE   WORKING   MAN'S   SONG 

I  AM  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No  bowing,  scraping  thing  ! 
I  bear  my  head  more  free  and  high 

Than  titled  count  or  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no ! 

And  only  to  one  Lord  on  high 
My  head  I  bow. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 
No  vain  and  varnish'd  thing  ! 


And  from  my  heart,  without  a  die, 

My  honest  thoughts  I  fling. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  1 1 

No,  no,  no  1 
Our  stout  John  Knox  was  none  —  and  why 

Should  I  be  so  ? 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No  mincing,  modish  thing, 
In  gay  saloon  a  butterfly, 

Some  wax-doll  Miss  to  wing. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no ! 

No  moth,  to  sport  in  fashion's  eye, 
A  Bond  Street  beau. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 
No  bully,  braggart  thing, 
With  jockeys  on  the  course  to  vie, 

With  bull-dogs  in  the  ring. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  1 

No,  no,  no  ! 

The  working  man  might  sooner  die 
Than  sink  so  low. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 
No  star-bedizen'd  thing  ! 
My  fathers  filch'd  no  dignity, 

By  fawning  to  a  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I  ! 

No,  no,  no  I 

And  to  the  wage  of  honesty 
My  rank  I  owe. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No  bowing,  scraping  thing  ! 
I  bear  my  head  more  free  and  high 

Than  titled  count  or  king. 
I  am  no  gentleman,  not  I ! 

No,  no,  no  ! 

And  thank  the  blessed  God  on  high, 
Who  made  me  so  1 


WILLIE  WINKIE 

WEE  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 
Up  stairs  and  doon  stairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
"  Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ?  —  for  it  's 
now  ten  o'clock." 


Hey,  Willie  Winkie  !  are  ye  comin'  ben  9 
The  cat 's  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin1 

hen, 
The  doug  's  spelder'd  on  the  floor,  and  disna 

gie  a  cheep  ; 
But  here  's  a  waukrife  laddie,  that  winna 

fa'  asleep. 


MILLER— MACKAY 


Ony  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue  !  —  glow'rin' 
like  the  moon, 

Rattlin'  in  an  airn  jug  wi'  an  airn  spoon, 

Rumblin',  tumblin'  roun'  about,  era  win'  like 
a  cock, 

Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what  — wauknin'  sleep- 
in'  folk ! 


Hey,   Willie   Winkie  !    the    wean  's    in    a 

creel  1 
Waumblin'  aff  a  bodie's  knee  like  a  vera 

eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin'  a* 

her  thrums  : 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie ! — See,  there  he  comes  J 


TELL  ME,  YE  WINGED  WINDS 

TELL  me,  ye  winged  winds, 

That  round  my  pathway  roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot 

Where  mortals  weep  no  more  ? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell, 

Some  valley  in  the  west, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain, 

The  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sigh'd  for  pity  as  it  answer'd,  "  No." 

Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep, 

Whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Knowst  thou  some  favor'd  spot, 

Some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find 

The  bliss  for  which  he  sighs, 
Where  sorrow  never  lives, 

And  friendship  never  dies  ? 
The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  flow, 
Stopp'd  for  a  while,  and  sigh'd  to  answer, 
"No." 

And  thou,  serenest  moon, 

That,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth 

Asleep  in  night's  embrace ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round 

Hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot 
Where  miserable  man 

May  find  a  happier  lot  ? 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe, 
And  a  voice,   sweet   but  sad,   responded, 
"  No." 

Tell  me,  my  secret  soul, 

Oh  !  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 

Is  there  no  resting-place 

From  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? 


Is  there  no  happy  spot 

Where  mortals  may  be  blest, 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm, 

And  weariness  a  rest  ? 
Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals 

given, 

Wav'd  their  bright  wings,  and  whisper'ds 
"  Yes,  in  heaven." 


EARL  NORMAN  AND  JOHN 
TRUMAN 

THROUGH  great  Earl  Norman's  acres  wide, 

A  prosperous  and  a  good  land, 
'T  will  take  you  fifty  miles  to  ride 

O'er  grass,  and  corn,  and  woodland. 
His  age  is  sixty-nine,  or  near, 

And  I  'm  scarce  twenty-two,  man, 
And  have  but  fifty  pounds  a  year,  — 

Poor  John  Truman  ! 
But  would  I  change  ?     I'  faith  !  not  I, 

Oh  no  !  not  I,  says  Truman  ! 

Earl  Norman  dwells  in  halls  of  state, 

The  grandest  in  the  county  ; 
Has  forty  cousins  at  his  gate, 

To  feed  upon  his  bounty. 
But  then  he  's  deaf  —  the  doctors'  care, 

While  I  in  whispers  woo,  man, 
And  find  my  physic  in  the  air,  — 

Stout  John  Truman  ! 
D  'ye  think  I  'd  change  for  thrice  his  gold  ? 

Oh  no  I  not  I,  says  Truman  ! 

Earl  Norman  boasts  a  gartered  knee, 

A  proof  of  royal  graces  ; 
I  wear,  by  Nelly  wrought  for  me, 

A  silken  pair  of  braces. 
He  sports  a  star  upon  his  breast, 

And  I  a  violet  blue,  man,  — 


88 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


The  gift  of  her  who  loves  ine  best, 

Proud  John  Truman  ! 
I  'd  be  myself,  and  not  the  Earl, 

Oh,  that  would  I,  says  Truman. 

WHAT   MIGHT   BE   DONE 

WHAT  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise  — 
What     glorious     deeds,     my     suffering 

brother, 

Would  they  unite 
In  love  and  right, 
And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another  ? 

Oppression's  heart  might  be  imbued 
With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness, 

And  knowledge  pour, 

From  shore  to  shore, 
Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 


All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs, 
All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together  ; 
And  wine  and  corn, 
To  each  man  born, 
Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 
The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 

Might  stand  erect 

In  self-respect, 
And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow . 

What    might    be   done  ?     This   might   be 

done, 
And    more     than     this,     my     suffering 

brother  — 

More  than  the  tongue 
E'er  said  or  sung, 
If  men  were  wise  and  lov'd  each  other. 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 

INCLUDING  THE  POETS  OF  YOUNG  IRELAND 

{See  also :  DE  VERE,  MAGINN,  MAHONY,  SIMMONS) 


&amud  Siofcer 


RORY    O'MORE;  OR,   GOOD 
OMENS 

YOUNG  Rory   O'More   courted    Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He  was  bold  as  a  hawk,  —  she  as  soft  as 

the  dawn  ; 
He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to 

please, 
And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that 

was  to  tease. 
"  Now,   Rory,   be  aisy,"   sweet    Kathleen 

would  cry 
(Reproof  on   her  lip,  but  a  smile  in  her 


"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth, 

what  I  'm  about, 
Faith  you  've  teas'd   till  I  've  put  on  my 

cloak  inside  out." 
"Oh  !  jewel,"  says  Rory,  "that  same  is  the 

way 


You  've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a 

day; 
And  't  is  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not  to 

be  sure  ? 
For  't  is  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory 

O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think 

of  the  like, 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering 

Mike  ; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I  '11  be 

bound." 
"  Faith,"  says  Rory,  "  I  'd  rather  love  you 

than  the  ground." 

"  Now,  Rory,  I  '11  cry  if  you  don't  let  me  go  ; 
Sure  I  drame  ev'ry  night  that  I  'm  hating 

you  so  !  " 

"  Oh,"  says   Rory,  "  that   same  I  'm   de- 
lighted to  hear, 
For  drames  always  go  by  conthrairies,  my 

dear  ; 


SAMUEL   LOVER 


89 


Oh  !  jewel,  keep  draining   that  same   till 

you  die, 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night 

the  black  lie  ! 
And  'tis  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to 

be  sure  ? 
Since   'tis   all   for  good  luck,"  says  bold 

Rory  O'More. 

>'  Arrah,    Kathleen,    my    darlint,    you  've 

teas'd  me  enough, 
Sure  I  've  thrash 'd  for  your  sake  Diiiny 

Grimes  and  Jim  Duff  ; 
And    I  've    made    myself,    drinking   your 

health,  quite  a  baste, 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the 

praste." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round 

her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or 

speck, 

And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beam- 
ing with  light, 
And  he  kiss'd  her  sweet  lips  ;  —  don't  you 

think  he  was  right  ? 
"  Now  Rory,  leave  off,  sir  ;  you  '11  hug  me 

no  more, 
That 's  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kiss'd 

me  before." 
"Then  here  goes  another,"   says  he,   "to 

make  sure, 
For  there  's  luck   in  odd   numbers,"  says 

Rory  O'More, 


WIDOW   MACHREE 

WIDOW  Machree,  it 's  no  wonder  you  frown, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty 
black  gown, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
How  alter'd  your  air, 
With  that  close  cap  you  wear  — 
'T  is  destroying  your  hair 

Which  should  be  flowing  free  ; 
Be  no  longer  a  churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree  ! 

Widow  Machree,  now  the  summer  is  come, 
Och  hone  !  Widow  Machree, 


When  everything  smiles,  should  a  beauty 
look  glum  ? 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 
And  the  rabbits  and  hares  — 
Why  even  the  bears 

Now  in  couples  agree  ; 
And  the  mute  little  fish, 
Though  they  can't  spake,  they  wish, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 

WTidow  Machree,  and  when  wintei  comes 
in, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree, 
To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a  sin, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 
To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

Full  of  family  glee  ; 
While  alone  with  your  cup, 
Like  a  hermit,  you  sup, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts 

I  've  towld, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree, 
But  you  're  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in 

the  cowld  ? 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
With  such  sins  on  your  head 
Sure  your  peace  would  be  fled, 
Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 
Without  thinking  to  see 
Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 
That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Crying,    "  Och    hone  !     Widow    Ma- 
chree "  ? 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  Ma- 
chree, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
And  with  my  advice,  faith  I  wish  you  'd 
take  me, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 
You  'd  have  me  to  desire 
Then  to  sit  by  the  fire, 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

In  whispering  to  me, 
That  the  ghosts  would  depart, 
When  you  'd  me  near  your  heart, 

Och  hone  !     Widow  Machree. 


9o 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


3toljn 


SOGGARTH  AROON 

AM  I  the  slave  they  say, 
Soggarth  aroon  ? l 

Since  you  did  show  the  way, 
Soggarth  aroon, 

Their  slave  no  more  to  be, 

While  they  would  work  with  me 
Old  Ireland's  slavery, 
Soggarth  aroon. 

Why  not  her  poorest  man, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Try  and  do  all  he  can, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Her  commands  to  fulfil 
Of  his  own  heart  and  will, 
Side  by  side  with  you  still, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Loyal  and  brave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Yet  be  not  slave  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Nor,  out  of  fear  to  you, 
Stand  up  so  near  to  you  — 
Och  !  out  of  fear  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 

Who,  in  the  winter's  night, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
When  the  cold  blast  did  bite, 

Soggarth  aroon, 


Came  to  my  cabin-door, 
And  on  my  earthen-floor 
Knelt  by  me,  sick  and  poor, 
Soggarth  aroou  ? 

Who,  on  the  marriage  day, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Made  the  poor  cabin  gay, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
And  did  both  laugh  and  sing, 
Making  our  hearts  to  ring 
At  the  poor  christening, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Who,  as  friend  only  met, 

Soggarth  aroon, 
Never  did  flout  me  yet, 

Soggarth  aroon  ; 
And  when  my  hearth  was  dim, 
Gave,  while  his  eye  did  brim, 
What  I  should  give  to  him, 

Soggarth  aroon  ? 

Och  !  you,  and  only  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  ! 
And  for  this  I  was  true  to  you, 

Soggarth  aroon  1 

Our  love  they  '11  never  shake, 

When  for  ould  Ireland's  sake 

We  a  true  part  did  take, 

Soggarth  aroon ! 


A  PLACE   IN   THY  MEMORY 

A  PLACE  in  thy  memory,  Dearest ! 

Is  all  that  I  claim  : 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  nearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer  ; 

Another  may  win  and  wear; 
I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 

If  I  am  remember'd  there. 

1  S&garl  ar4n 


Remember  me,  not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  light  it  hath  lost ! 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mothei 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see, 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O  Dearest,  remember  me  I 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  Dearest  1 

Couldst  thou  smile  on  me, 
•  Priest,  dear. 


GRIFFIN  —  MANGAN 


91 


I  would  be  the  fondest  and  dearest 

That  ever  lov'd  thee  : 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming 

That  never  must  burst  upon  thine  ; 
And  heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming, 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me  then  !     O  remember 

My  calm  light  love, 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 

My  life  may  prove  ! 
That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A  smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 

NOCTURNE 

SLEEP  that  like  the  couched  dove 

Broods  o'er  the  weary  eye, 
Dreams  that  with  soft  heavings  move 

The  heart  of  memory, 
Labor's  guerdon,  golden  rest, 
Wrap  thee  in  its  downy  vest,  — 
Fall  like  comfort  on  thy  brain 
And  sing  the  hush  song  to  thy  pain  ! 


Far  from  thee  be  startling  fears, 
And  dreams  the  guilty  dream  ; 
No  banshee  scare  thy  drowsy  ears 

With  her  ill-omeu'd  scream  ; 
But  tones  of  fairy  minstrelsy 
Float  like  the  ghosts  of  sound  o'er  thee, 
Soft  as  the  chapel's  distant  bell, 
And  lull  thee  to  a  sweet  farewell. 

Ye  for  whom  the  ashy  hearth 
The  fearful  housewife  clears, 

Ye  whose  tiny  sounds  of  mirth 
The  nighted  carman  hears, 

Ye  whose  pygmy  hammers  make 

The  wonderers  of  the  cottage  wake, 

Noiseless  be  your  airy  flight, 

Silent  as  the  still  moonlight. 

Silent  go,  and  harmless  come, 

Fairies  of  the  stream  : 
Ye,  who  love  the  winter  gloom 

Or  the  gay  moonbeam, 
Hither  bring  your  drowsy  store 
Gather'd  from  the  bright  lusmore  ; 
Shake  o'er  temples,  soft  and  deep, 
The  comfort  of  the  poor  man,  sleep. 


3[ame£  (Clarence 


DARK   ROSALEEN 

0  MY  Dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There  's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope, 

Upon  the  ocean  green  ; 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleeu  ! 
Shall   glad   your   heart,  shall   give  you 

hope, 

Shall   give   you   health,   and   help,   and 
hope, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  hills,  and  through  dales, 
Have  I  roam'd  for  your  sake  ; 

All  yesterday  I  sail'd  with  sails 
On  river  and  on  lake. 


The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dash'd  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  I 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
O  !  there  was  lightninj 
Red  lightning  lighten'< 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


in  my  blood, 
through  my  blood, 


All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro,  do  I  move, 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  1 


92 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

'T  is  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'T  is  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal  : 
Your  holy,  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You  '11  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
You  '11    think    of   me    through   daylight's 

hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
O,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen ! 

O  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  warp  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan  cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 

The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  can  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  Dark  Rosaleen  ! 


SOUL  AND   COUNTRY 

ARISE,  my  slumbering  soul  !  arise, 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do  ! 

The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies  ; 
A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 

And  live  anew. 

The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base  ; 
Immortal  Freedom's  thunder  horn 
As  yet  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 

To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul  !  and  see,  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here  : 
The  will  to  smite,  the  power  to  slay, 
Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand 

Afar,  anear  ; 

But,  God  !  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year  ? 

O,  dream  it  not ! 

It  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 
Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear, 

And  ill-begot. 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  nought : 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 

And  works  of  love, 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 
The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington  : 

Truth's  name  alone  shall  man  adore 
Long  as  the  waves  of  Time  shall  roll 

Henceforward  on. 

My  countrymen  !  my  words  are  weak  : 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark, 

My  heart  is  chill  ; 
Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 

Beseech  your  God  !  and  bide  your  hour  ! 
He  cannot,  will  not  long  be  dumb  : 

Even  now  his  tread 

Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power  ; 
And  coming,  trust  me,  it  will  come,  — 

Else  were  He  dead. 


LADY   DUFFERIN  — CAROLINE   NORTON 


93 


£riina,  Eafcp 


LAMENT    OF    THE    IRISH    EMI- 
GRANT 

I  'M  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 
On  a  bright  May  mornin'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 
The  corn  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high, 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary, 

The  day  is  bright  as  then, 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek  : 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near  — 
The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary  ; 

I  see  the  spire  from  here. 
But  the  graveyard  lies  between,  Mary, 

And  my  step  might  break  your  rest  — 
For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 

With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary, 

For  the  poor  make  no  sew  friends  ; 
But,  oh  !  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends. 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride  : 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  uiy  poor  Mary  died. 


Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And    my    arm's    young    strength    was 

gone  ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow  — 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore  — 
Oh  !  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  ! 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary  — *-  kind  and  true  ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to  : 
They   say   there  's   bread    and   work   for 
all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  there, 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies  ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  Maj 
morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 


Caroline  <£li3afctf)  Jtaraf)  Cotton 

(LADY  STIRLING-MAXWELL) 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TO- 
GETHER 

WE  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade  ; 
Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut-trees 

In  infancy  we  played. 


But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart, 

A  cloud  is  on  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  friends  together  — 

Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

W?  have  been  gay  together  ; 

Are  have  laugh'd  at  little  jests  ; 


94 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing 
Warm  and  joyous  in  our  breasts. 

But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 
And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  gay  together  — 
Shall  a  light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together, 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 
O'er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slum- 
ber'd 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 
The  voices  which  are  silent  there 

Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow  ; 
We  have  been  sad  together  — 

Oh  !  what  shall  part  us  now  ? 

THE  KING  OF  DENMARK'S  RIDE 

WORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 

(Hurry  !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pin'd  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would 
bring  ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of   ruby  and 
pearl ; 

And  his  rose  of  the  isles  is  dying  ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed, 

(Hurry  !) 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(Oh  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  f.ank  ; 
Worn-out  chargers  stagger'd  and  sank  ; 
Bridles   were   slacken'd,  and   girths  were 

burst  ; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 

For  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 

(Hurry  !) 

They  have  fainted,  and  falter'd,  and  home- 
ward gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying. 
The  king  look'd  back  at  that  faithful  child  ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  sinil'd  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering 

din, 
Then  he  dropp'd  ;  and  only  the  king  roc7  9  in 

Where  his  rose  of  the  isles  lay  dy.  jg  ! 


The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn  ; 

(Silence  !) 

No  answer  came  ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  return'd  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcom'd  the  king  from  that  wear; 

ride  ; 

For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day. 
The.  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 

Who  had  yearu'd   for  his  voice  while 
dying  ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 

The  king  return'd  from  her  chamber  of  rest 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing, 
The  tears  gush'd  forth  which  he  strove  to 

check  ; 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck  : 
"  O  steed  —  that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  !  " 

LOVE   NOT 

LOVE  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 
Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly 

flowers  — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossom'd  for  a  few  short 
hours. 

Love  not ! 
4 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change  : 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 
The   kindly-beaming  eye   grow   cold  and 

strange, 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  the  thing  you  love  may  die, 
May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome 

earth  ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky. 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 
Love  not ! 

Love  not  !  oh  warning  vainly  said 

In  present  hours  as  in  the  years  gone  by  ; 

Love  flings  a  halo  round   the  dear  ones' 

head, 

Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die 
Love  not  ! 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


95 


3(oi)n  frantic 


KITTY   NEIL 

"  AH,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that 

wheel, 
Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from 

spinning  ; 

Come  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore- 
tree, 
Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance 

is  beginning. 

The  sun  is  gone  down,  but  the  full  harvest- 
moon 
Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew- 

whiten'd  valley, 
While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving 

things 

Each   little   bird   sings   in   the  green 
shaded  alley." 

With  a  blush  and  a  smile  Kitty  rose  up  the 

while, 
Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  bound  her 

hair,  glancing  ; 
'T  is  hard  to  refuse  when  a  young  lover 

sues, 
So  she  could  n't  but  choose   to  —  go 

off  to  the  dancing. 
And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are 

seen, 
Each  gay-hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of 

his  choosing  ; 
And   Pat,   without   fail,   leads   out    sweet 

Kitty  Neil,  — 

Somehow,   when   he   ask'd,   she  ne'er 
thought  of  refusing. 

Now,  Felix   Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his 

knee, 
And   with   flourish  so  free  sets   each 

couple  in  motion  ; 
With  a  cheer  and  a  bound,  the  lads  patter 

the  ground, 
The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans 

on  the  ocean  : 
Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose  —  feet  light  as 

the  doe's, 

Now   coyly   retiring,  now  boldly   ad- 
vancing — 


Search  the  world  all  round,  from  the  sky 

to  the  ground, 

No   such   sight  can   be   found   as   an 
Irish  lass  dancing  ! 

Sweet  Kate  !  who  could  view  your  bright 

eyes  of  deep  blue, 
Beaming  humidly  through  their  dark 

lashes  so  mildly, 
Your    fair-turned    arm,    heaving     breast, 

rounded  form, 
Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses 

throb  wildly; 

Young  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  de- 
part, 
Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful 

yet  sweet  love  ; 
The  sight  leaves  his  eye,  as  he  cries  with  a 

sigh, 

"  Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under 
your  feet,  love .' " 

A   SPINNING-WHEEL   SONG 

MELLOW  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  begin- 
ning ; 

Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spin- 
ning ; 
Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother, 

sitting, 
Is   croaning,  and   moaning,  and   drowsily 

knitting  : 

"  Eileen,  achora,  J  hear  some  one  tapping." 
"  'T  is   the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the 

glass  flapping." 

"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 
"  'T  is  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  sum- 
mer wind  dying." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 

foot 's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 

"  What 's  that  noise  that  I  hear  at  the  win- 
dow, I  wonder  ?  " 

"  'T  is  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-- 
bush under." 


96 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


"  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving 

your  stool  on, 
And  singing  all  wrong  that   old  song   of 

«  The  Coolun  ? ' " 
There  's  a  form  at  the  casement  —  the  form 

of  her  true-love  — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face   bent,  "  I  'm 

waiting  for  you,  love  ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice 

step  lightly, 
We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon 's 

shining  brightly." 
Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 
Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 

foot 's  stirring  ; 

Sprightly,    and    lightly,   and    airily   ring- 
ing. 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 

singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays 
her  fingers, 


Steals  up  from  her  seat  —  longs  to  go,  and 

yet  lingers  ; 
A  frighten'd  glance  turns   to  her  drowsy 

grandmother, 
Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel 

with  the  other. 
Lazily,    easily,     swings     now    the    wheel 

round  ; 
Slowly  and  slowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's 

sound  ; 
Noiseless   and   light   to  the   lattice  above 

her 
The  maid  steps  —  then  leaps  to  the  arms 

of  her  lover. 
Slower  —  and    slower  —  and     slower     the 

wheel  swings  ; 
Lower  —  and  lower  —  and  lower  the  reel 

rings  ; 
Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stopp'd  their 

ringing  and  moving, 
Through  the   grove  the   young   lovers   by 

moonlight  are  roving. 


THE   FAIRY   THORN 

AN   ULSTER   BALLAD 

"  GET  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary 

spinning  wheel  ; 
For  your  father 's  on  the  hill,  and  your 

mother  is  asleep  ; 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we  '11  dance 

a  highland  reel       » 
Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  't  was  thus  the  maid- 
ens cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the 

green  ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  sock  and  the  weary  wheel 

aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They  're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of 

the  quiet  eve, 
Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle 

bare  ; 
The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleepy  song 

they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air  ; 


jfergiigon 

And  linking  hand  in  hand,  and  singing  as 

they  go, 
The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en 

their  fearless  way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in 

lovely  beauty  grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  gray. 

The  hawthorn  stands  between  the  ashes  tall 

and  slim, 

Like  .matron  with  her  twin  grand-daugh- 
ters at  her  knee  ; 
The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head 

gray  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four  have  ranged  them 

in  a  row, 
Between   each   lovely   couple   a   stately 

rowan  stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy  like  skimming 

birds  they  go,  — 
Oh,  never  caroll'd  bird  like  them  1 

But   solemn  is  the  silence  of    the  silvery 

haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless 
repose, 


FERGUSON  —  DAVIS 


97 


And  dreamily  the  evening  has  still'd  the 

haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from 

the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across 

the  open  shaw, 
Are  hush'd  the  maidens'  voices,  as  cowering 

down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from   the   air   above   and  the  grassy 

ground  beneath, 
And  from  the  mountain-ashes  and  the  old 

white  thorn  between, 
A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth  through 

their  beings  breathe, 
And   they  sink   down   together   on   the 
green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and,  stealing  side 

by  side, 
They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their 

drooping  necks  so  fair, 
Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms 

to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasp'd  and  prostrate  all,  with  their 

heads  together  bow'd, 
Soft  o'er  their  bosoms  beating  —  the  only 

human  sound  — 
They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent 

fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

Nor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  pra,yer  can 
any  say, 


'  But  wild,  wild,  the  terror  of  the  speechless 
.  three, 

For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently 

away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  part- 
ing locks  of  gold, 
And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head 

withdraws  ; 
They  feel    her    sliding    arms    from    their 

tranced  arms  unfold, 
But    they    dare    not    look    to  see    the 
cause  : 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchant- 
ment lies 
Through  all  that  night  of   anguish  and 

perilous  amaze  ; 
And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their 

quivering  eyes, 

Or    their   limbs  from   the  cold  ground 
raise, 

Till  out  of  night  the  earth  has  roll'd  her 

dewy  side, 
With     every    haunted     mountain     and 

streamy  vale  below  ; 
When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow 

morning-tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they 

may, 
And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious 

friends  in  vain  : 
They  pin'd  away  and  died  within  the  year 

and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 


THE   SAQK   OF   BALTIMORE  1 

THE  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's 

hundred  isles, 
The  summer  sun  is  gleaming  still  through 

Gabriel's  rough  defiles  ; 
Old  Innisherkin's  crumbled  fane  looks  like 

a  moulting  bird, 
And  in  a  calm  and  sleepy  swell  the  ocean 

tide  is  heard  : 


The  hookers  lie  upon  the  beach;  the  children 
cease  their  play  ; 

The  gossips  leave  the  little  inn  ;  the  house- 
holds kneel  to  pray  ; 

And  full  of  love,  and  peace,  and  rest,  its 
daily  labor  o'er, 

Upon  that  cosy  creek  there  lay  the  town  of 
Baltimore. 

A  deeper  rest,  a  starry  trance,  has  come  with 
midnight  there  ; 


1  His  last  poem. 


98 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


No  sound,  except  that  throbbing  wave,  in 

earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ! 
The  massive  capes  and  ruin'd  towers  seem 

conscious  of  the  calm  ; 
The  fibrous  sod  and  stunted  trees  are  breath- 
ing heavy  balm. 
So  still  the  night,  these  two  long  barques 

round  Dunashad  that  glide 
Must   trust  their   oars,  methinks  not  few, 

against  the  ebbing  tide. 
Oh,  some  sweet  mission  of  true  love  must 

urge  them  to  the  shore  ! 
They  bring  some  lover  to  his  bride  who  sighs 

in  Baltimore. 

All,  all  asleep  within  each  roof  along  that 

rocky  street, 
And  these  must  be  the  lover's  friends,  with 

gently  gliding  feet  — 
A  stifled  gasp,  a  dreamy  noise  !    "  The  roof 

is  in  a  flame  !  " 
From  out  their  beds  and  to  their  doors  rush 

maid  and  sire  and  dame, 
And   meet   upon   the   threshold  stone   the 

gleaming  sabre's  fall, 
And  o'er  each  black  and  bearded  face  the 

white  or  crimson  shawl. 
The  yell  of   "Allah!"   breaks  above  the 

prayer,  and  shriek,  and  roar  : 
O  blessed  God  !  the  Algerine  is  lord  of  Bal- 
timore ! 

Then  flung  the  youth  his  naked  hand  against 

the  shearing  sword  ; 
Then  sprung  the  mother  on  the  brand  with 

which  her  son  was  gor'd  ; 
Then  sunk  the  grandsire  on  the  floor,  his 

grand-babes  clutching  wild  ; 
Then  fled  the  maiden  moaning  faint,  and 

nestled  with  the  child  : 
But   see  !   yon   pirate   strangled   lies,  and 

crush'd  with  splashing  heel, 
While  o'er  him  in  an  Irish  hand  there  sweeps 

his  Syrian  steel  : 
Though  virtue  sink,  and  courage  fail,  and 

misers  yield  their  store, 
There  's  one  hearth  well  avenged  in  the  sack 

of  Baltimore. 

Midsummer  morn  in  woodland  nigh  the 
birds  begin  to  sing, 

They  see  not  now  the  milking  maids,  —  de- 
serted is  the  spring  ; 

Midsummer  day  this  gallant  rides  from  dis- 
tant Bandon's  town, 


These  hookers  cross'd  from  stormy  Skull, 

that  skiff  from  Affadown  ; 
They  only  found  the  smoking  walls  with 

neighbors'  blood  besprent, 
And  on  the   strewed  and  trampled  beach 

awhile  they  wildly  went, 
Then  dash'd  to  sea,  and  pass'd  Cape  Clear, 

and  saw,  five  leagues  before, 
The   pirate-galley  vanishing  that  ravaged 

Baltimore. 

Oh,  some  must  tug  the   galley's  oar,  and 

some  must  tend  the  steed  ; 
This  boy  will  bear  a  Scheik's  chibouk,  and 

that  a  Bey's  jerreed. 
Oh,  some  are  for  the  arsenals  by  beauteous 

Dardanelles  ; 
And  some  are  in  the  caravan  to  Mecca's 

sandy  dells. 
The  maid  that   Bandon   gallant  sought  is 

chosen  for  the  Dey  : 
She  's  safe  —  she  's  dead  —  she  stabb'd  him 

in  the  midst  of  his  Serai  ! 
And  when  to  die  a  death  of  fire  that  noble 

maid  they  bore, 
She   only   smiled,   O'Driscoll's  child ;   she 

thought  of  Baltimore. 

'T  is  two  long  years  since  sunk  the  town 

beneath  that  bloody  band, 
And  all  around  its  trampled  hearths  a  larger 

concourse  stand, 
Where  high  upon  a  gallows-tree  a  yelling 

wretch  is  seen  : 
'T  is  Hackett  of  Dungarvan — hewho  steer'd 

the  Algerine  ! 
He  fell  amid  a  sullen  shout  with  scarce  a 

passing  prayer, 
For  he  had  slain  the  kith  and  kin  of  many 

a  hundred  there. 
Some     mutter'd     of    MacMurchadh,   who 

brought  the  Norman  o'er  ; 
Some  curs'd  him  with  Iscariot,  that  day  in 

Baltimore. 

THE   BOATMAN    OF   KINSALE 

His  kiss  is  sweet,  his  word  is  kind, 

His  love  is  rich  to  me  ; 
I  could  not  in  a  palace  find 

A  truer  heart  than  he. 
The  eagle  shelters  not  his  nest 

From  hurricane  and  hail 
More  bravely  than  he  guards  my  breast  — « 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 


THOMAS   OSBORNE  DAVIS 


99 


The  wind  that  round  the  Fastnet  sweeps 

Is  not  a  whit  more  pure, 
The  goat  that  down  Cnoc  Sheehy  leaps 

Has  not  a  foot  more  sure. 
No  firmer  hand  nor  freer  eye 

E'er  faced  an  autumn  gale, 
De  Courcy's  heart  is  not  so  high  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

The  brawling  squires  may  heed  him  not, 

The  dainty  stranger  sneer, 
But  who  will  dare  to  hurt  our  cot 

When  Myles  O'Hea  is  here  ? 
The  scarlet  soldiers  pass  along  : 

They  'd  like,  but  fear  to  rail  : 
His  blood  is  hot,  his  blow  is  strong  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

His  hooker  's  in  the  Scilly  van, 

When  seines  are  in  the  foam, 
But  money  never  made  the  man, 

Nor  wealth  a  happy  home. 
So,  bless'd  with  love  and  liberty, 

While  he  can  trim  a  sail, 
He  '11  trust  in  God,  and  cling  to  me  — 

The  Boatman  of  Kinsale. 

THE   WELCOME 

COME  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn- 
ing ; 

Come  when  you  're  look'd  for,  or  come  with- 
out warning  : 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before 
you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I  '11  adore  you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted  ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted  ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than 
ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers 
don't  sever  !  " 

I  '11  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you 
choose  them,  — 


Or,  after  you  've  kiss'd  them,  they  '11  lie  on 

my  bosom  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to 

inspire  you  ; 
I  '11  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't 

tire  you. 
Oh  !  your  step  's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 

vex'd  farmer, 
Or   sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without 

armor ; 
I  '11  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise 

above  me, 
Then,  wandering,  I  '11  wish  you  in  silence 

to  love  me. 

We  '11  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff 

and  the  eyrie  ; 
We  '11  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track 

of  the  fairy  ; 
We  '11  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  '11  list  to 

the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you 

can  give  her  : 

Oh  !  she  '11  whisper  you  —  "  Love,  as  un- 
changeably beaming, 
And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully 

streaming  ; 
Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall 

quiver, 
As  our   souls  flow  in  one  down  eternity's 

river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn- 
ing ; 

Come  when  you  're  looked  for,  or  come  with- 
out warning  : 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  '11  find  here  before 
you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 
I  '11  adore  you  ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted  ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted  ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greenei 
than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  "  True  lovers 
don't  sever  ! " 


IOO 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


THE   IRISH   RAPPAREES 

RlGH  Shemus1  he  has  gone  to  France,  and 

left  his  crown  behind  ; 
111  luck  be  theirs,  both  day  and  night,  put 

running  in  his  mind  ! 
Lord     Lucan     followed     after     with     his 

Slashers  brave  and  true, 
And   now   the    doleful   keen   is   raised  — 

"  What  will  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
What  must  poor  Ireland  do  ? 
Our  luck,"  they  say,   "  has  gone  to  France 

—  what  can  poor  Ireland  do  ?  " 

O,  never  fear  for  Ireland,  for  she  has  sol- 
diers still, 

For  Rory's  boys  are  in  the  wood,  and  Re- 
my's  on  the  hill  ! 

And  never  had  poor  Ireland  more   loyal 
hearts  than  these  — 

May  God  be  kind  and  good  to  them,  the 

faithful  Rapparees  ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 

The  jewel  were  you,  Rory,  with  your  Irish 
Rapparees ! 

O,   black 's  your   heart,  Clan  Oliver,  and 

colder  than  the  clay  ! 
O,  high  's  your  head,  Clan  Sassenach,  since 

Sarsfleld  's  gone  away  ! 
It 's  little  love  you  bear  to  us  for  sake  of 

long  ago  ; 
But  hold  your  hand,  for  Ireland  still  can 

strike  a  deadly  blow  — 
Can  strike  a  mortal  blow  : 
Och,   duar-na-Crfosd  !    't  is   she   that   still 

could  strike  a  deadly  blow  ! 


<d3atoan 


The  Master's  bawn,  the  Master's   seat,   a 

surly  bodagh  fills  ; 
The   Master's   son,   an   outlawed  man,   is 

riding  on  the  hills. 
But  God  be  prais'd  that  round  him  throng, 

as  thick  as  summer  bees, 
The  swords  that  guarded  Limerick  wall  — 

his  loyal  Rapparees  ! 
His  loving  Rapparees  ! 
Who  dare  say  no  to  Rory  Oge,  with  all  his 

Rapparees  ? 

Black  Billy  Grimes  of  Latnamard,  he  rack'd 

us  long  and  sore  — 
God  rest  the  faithful  hearts  he  broke  !  — 

we  '11  never  see  them  more  ; 
But  I  '11  go  bail  he  '11  break  no  more,  while 

Truagh  has  gallows-trees  ; 
For  why  ?  —  he  met,  one  lonesome  night, 

the  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  angry  Rapparees  ! 
They  never   sin   no  more,  my  boys,  who 

cross  the  Rapparees  ! 

Now,    Sassenach    and    Cromweller,    take 

heed  of  what  I  say, 
Keep   down  your  black   and  angry  looks 

that  scorn  us  night  and  day  : 
For  there  's  a  just  and  wrathful  Judge  that 

every  action  sees, 
And  He  '11  make  strong,  to  right  our  wrong, 

the  faithful  Rapparees  ! 
The  fearless  Rapparees  ! 
The  men  that  rode  at  Sarsfield's  side,  the 

roving  Rapparees  ! 


i£  jflorence  3©acCartf)p 


BLESS   THE    DEAR   OLD   VER- 
DANT  LAND 

BLESS  the  dear  old  verdant  land  ! 

Brother,  wert  thou  born  of  it  ? 
As  thy  shadow  life  doth  stand 
Twining  round  its  rosy  band, 
Did  an  Irish  mother's  hand 

Guide  thee  in  the  morn  of  it  ? 


Did  a  father's  first  command 
Teach  thee  love  or  scorn  of  it  ? 

Thou  who  tread'st  its  fertile  breast, 

Dost  thon  feel  a  glow  for  it  ? 
Thou  of  all  its  charms  possest, 
Living  on  its  first  and  best, 
Art  thou  but  a  thankless  guest 
Or  a  traitor  foe  for  it  ? 


lKing  James  II. 


MACCARTHY  —  BOWLING 


101 


If  thou  lovest,  where  's  the  test  ? 
Wilt  thou  strike  a  blow  for  it  ? 

Has  the  past  no  goading  sting 

That  can  make  thee  rouse  for  it  ? 

Does  thy  land's  reviving  spring, 

Full  of  buds  and  blossoming, 

Fail  to  make  thy  cold  heart  cling, 
Breathing  lover's  vows  for  it  ? 

With  the  circling  ocean's  ring 
Thou  wert  made  a  spouse  for  it. 

Hast  thou  kept  as  thou  shouldst  keep 

Thy  affections  warm  for  it, 
Letting  no  cold  feeling  creep 
Like  an  ice-breath  o'er  the  deep, 
Freezing  to  a  stony  sleep 

Hopes  the  heart  would  form  for  it, 
Glories  that  like  rainbows  peep 

Through  the  darkening  storm  for  it  ? 

Son  of  this  down-trodden  land, 

Aid  us  in  the  fight  for  it. 
We  seek  to  make  it  great  and  grand, 
Its  shipless  bays,  its  naked  strand, 
By  canvas-swelling  breezes  fanned  : 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight  for  it, 
The  past  expiring  like  a  brand 

In  morning's  rosy  light  for  it  ! 

Think,  this  dear  old  land  is  thine, 
And  thou  a  traitor  slave  of  it  : 
Think  how  the  Switzer  leads  his  kine, 
When  pale  the  evening  star  doth  shine 


His  song  has  home  in  every  line, 

Freedom  in  every  stave  of  it  ; 
Think  how  the  German  loves  his  Rhine 

And  worships  every  wave  of  it  ! 

Our  own  dear  land  is  bright  as  theirs, 
But  oh  !  our  hearts  are  cold  for  it ; 

Awake  !  we  are  not  slaves,  but  heirs. 

Our  fatherland  requires  our  cares, 

Our  speech  with  men,  with  God  our  prayers; 
Spurn  blood-staiu'd  Judas  gold  for  it : 

Let  us  do  all  that  honor  dares  — 
Be  earnest,  faithful,  bold  for  it ! 

THE   IRISH   WOLF-HOUND 

FROM  "  THE  FORAY  OF  CON  O'DONNELL  " 

As  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass, 

He  flies  with  step  as  light  and  sure, 
He  hunts  the  wolf  through  Tostan  pass, 

And  starts  the  deer  by  Lisauoure. 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

O  Con  !  has  not  a  sweeter  sound 
Than  when  along  the  valley  swells 

The  cry  of  John  Mac  Douuell's  hound. 

His  stature  tall,  his  body  long, 

His  back  like  night,  his  breast  like  snow, 
His  fore-leg  pillar-like  and  strong, 

His  hind-leg  like  a  bended  bow  ; 
Rough  curling  hair,  head  long  and  thin, 

His  ear  a  leaf  so  small  and  round  ; 
Not  Bran,  the  favorite  dog  of  Fin, 

Could  rival  John  Mac  Donnell's  hound. 


25artfjofometo 


THE   REVEL 
(EAST  INDIA) 

WE  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare  ; 
As  they  shout  back  our  peals  of  laughter 

It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there. 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

We  drink  in  our  comrades'  eyes  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing, 
Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet  ; 


'T  is  cold,  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 
And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 

But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 
And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise  : 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There  's  many  a  hand  that 's  shaking, 

And  many  a  cheek  that 's  sunk  ; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They  '11  burn  with  the  wine  we  've  drunk 
Then  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

'T  is  here  the  revival  lies  : 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 


102 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


Time  was  when  we  laugh'd  at  others  ; 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then  ; 
Ha  !  ha  !  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No  !  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  thoughtless  is  here  the  wise  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink  ; 
We  '11  fall,  'midst  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
Come  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

'T  is  this  that  the  respite  buys  : 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There  's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 
'T  is  the  hurricane's  sultry  breath  ; 

And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 
Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  Death. 


But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies  : 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning  ? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  can  sting  no  more  ? 
No,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  world  is  a  world  of  lies  : 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betray'd  by  the  land  we  find, 
When  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  are  most  behind  — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

'T  is  all  we  have  left  to  prize  : 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already  — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 


3|ofm 


THE   MEMORY   OF   THE   DEAD 

WHO  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He  's  all  a  knave  or  half  a  slave 

Who  slights  his  country  thus  ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few  : 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave, 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too  ; 
All,  all  are  gone  —  but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died  : 
All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made  ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam, 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit 's  still  at  home. 


The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest  ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land  ; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas,  that  Might  can  vanquish  Right ! 

They  fell,  and  pass'd  away  ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here 's  their  memory  —  may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite  ! 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still. 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  ; 
And  true  men  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight. 


IRISH    MINSTRELSY 


103 


THE   CELTIC   CROSS 

THROUGH  storm  and  fire  and  gloom,  I  see 
it  stand, 

Firm,  broSd,  and  tall, 

The  Celtic  Cross  that  marks  our  Father- 
land, 

Amid  them  all  ! 
Druids  and  Danes  and  Saxons  vainly  rage 

Around  its  base  ; 
It  standeth  shock  on  shock,  and  age  on  age, 

Star  of  our  scatter'd  race. 

9  Holy  Cross  !  dear  symbol  of  the  dread 

Death  of  our  Lord, 

Around  thee  long  have  slept  our  martyr 
dead 

Sward  over  sward. 
An  hundred  bishops  I  myself  can  count 

Among  the  slain  : 

Chiefs,  captains,  rank  and  file,   a  shining 
mount 

Of  God's  ripe  grain. 

The  monarch's  mace,  the   Puritan's  clay- 
more, 

Smote  thee  not  'down  ; 
On  headland  steep,  on  mountain   summit 
hoar, 

In  mart  and  town, 
In  Glendalough,  in  Ara,  in  Tyrone, 

We  find  thee  still, 
Thy  open  arms  still  stretching  to  thine  own, 

O'er  town  and  lough  and  hill. 

And  would  they  tear  thee  out  of  Irish  soil, 

The  guilty  fools  ! 
How  time  must  mock  their  antiquated  toil 

And  broken  tools  ! 

Cranmer  and  Cromwell  from  thy  grasp  re- 
,    tir'd, 

Baffled  and  thrown  ; 

William   and   Anne   to   sap  thy  site  con- 
spir'd,  — 

The  rest  is  known. 

Holy  Saint  Patrick,  father  of  our  faith, 

Belov'd  of  God  ! 

Shield  thy  dear  Church  from  the  impend- 
ing scaith, 

Or,  if  the  rod       / 


Must  scourge  it  yet  again,  inspire  and  raise 

To  emprise  high 
Men  like  the  heroic  race  of  other  days, 

Who  joyed  to  die. 

Fear  !  wherefore  should  the  Celtic  people 
fear 

Their  Church's  fate  ? 
The  day  is  not  —  the  day  was  never  near  — 

Could  desolate 
The  Destin'd  Island,  all  whose  seedy  clay 

Is  holy  ground  : 

Its  cross  shall  stand  till   that   predestin'd 
day 

When  Erin's  self  is  drown'd. 


THE    IRISH   WIFE 

I  WOULD  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land  ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand  ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life  : 
An  outlaw  —  so  I  'm  near  her 

To  love  till  death  my  Irish  wife. 

0  what  would  be  this  home  of  mine, 
A  ruin'd,  hermit-haunted  place, 

But  for  the  light  that  nightly  shines 
Upon  its  walls  from  Kathleen's  face  ! 

What  comfort  in  a  mine  of  gold, 
What  pleasure  in  a  royal  life, 

If  the  heart  within  lay  dead  and  cold, 
If  I  could  not  wed  my  Irish  wife  ? 

1  knew  the  law  forbade  the  banns  ; 

I  knew  my  king  abhorr'd  her  race  ; 
Who  never  bent  before  their  clans 

Must  bow  before  their  ladies'  grace. 
Take  all  my  forfeited  domain, 

I  cannot  wage  with  kinsmen  strife  : 
Take  knightly  gear  and  node  name, 

And  I  will  keep  my  Irish  wife. 

My  Irish  wife  has  clear  blue  eyes, 

My  heaven  by  day,  my  stars  by  night  j 

And  twin-like  truth  and  fondness  lie 
Within  her  swelling  bosom  white 

My  Irish  wife  has  golden  hair, 

Apollo's  harp  had  once  such  strings, 


104 


IRISH   MINSTRELSY 


Apollo's  self  might  pause  to  hear 
Her  bird-like  carol  when  she  sings. 

I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  all  the  dames  of  the  Saxon  land  ; 
I  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife 

For  the  Queen  of  France's  hand  ; 
For  she  to  me  is  dearer 

Than  castles  strong,  or  lands,  or  life  : 
In  death  I  would  be  near  her, 

And  rise  beside  my  Irish  wife. 

THE   EXILE'S    DEVOTION 

IF  I  forswear  the  art  divine 

That  glorifies  the  dead, 
What  comfort  then  can  I  call  mine, 

What  solace  seek  instead  ? 
For  from  my  birth  our  country's  fame 

Was  life  to  me,  and  love  ; 
And  for  each  loyal  Irish  name 

Some  garland  still  I  wove. 

I  'd  rather  be  the  bird  that  sings 

Above  the  martyr's  grave, 
Than  fold  in  fortune's  cage  my  wings 

And  feel  my  soul  a  slave  ; 
I  'd  rather  turn  one  simple  verse 

True  to  the  Gaelic  ear 


Than  sapphic  odes  I  might  rehearse 
With  senates  listening  near. 

Oh,  native  land  !  dost  ever  mark, 

When  the  world's  din  is  drown'd 
Betwixt  the  daylight  and  the  dark, 

A  wandering  solemn  sound 
That  on  the  western  wind  is  borne 

Across  thy  dewy  breast  ? 
It  is  the  voice  of  those  who  mourn 

For  thee,  in  the  far  West. 

For  them  and  theirs  I  oft  essay 

Thy  ancient  art  of  song, 
And  often  sadly  turn  away, 

Deeming  my  rashness  wrong  ; 
For  well  I  ween,  a  loving  will 

Is  all  the  art  I  own  : 
Ah  me  !  could  love  suffice  for  skill, 

What  triumphs  I  had  known  !. 

My  native  land  !  my  native  land  ! 

Live  in  my  memory  still ! 
Break  on  my  brain,  ye  surges  grand  ! 

Stand  up,  mist-cover'd  hill ! 
Still  on  the  mirror  of  the  mind 

The  scenes  I  love,  I  see  : 
Would  I  could  fly  on  the  western  wind, 

My  native  land,  to  thee  ! 


9[ane  f  rancegca 


("  SPERANZA  ") 

THE  VOICE   OF   THE   POOR 


WAS  sorrow  ever  like  unto  our  sorrow  ? 

O  God  above  ! 

Will  our  night  never  change  into  a  mor- 
row 

Of  joy  and  love  ? 

A  deadly  gloom  is  on  us  —  waking  —  sleep- 
ing— 

Like  the  darkness  at  noon-tide 
That  fell   upon  the  pallid   Mother,  weep- 
ing 
By  the  Crucified. 

Before  us  die  our  brothers  of  starvation  : 
Around   are    cries,  of    famine   and   de- 
spair : 


Where  is  hope  for  us,  or  comfort,  or  salva- 
tion ? 
Where,  oh,  where  ? 

If  the  angels  ever  hearken,  downward  bend- 
ing* 

They  are  weeping,  we  are  sure, 
At  the  litanies  of  human  groans  ascend^ 

ing 
From  the  crush'd  hearts  of  the  poor. 

When  the  human  rests  in  love  upon  the 

human, 

All  grief  is  light ; 
But  who  bends  one  kind  glance  to  illumine 

Our  life-long  night  ? 

The  air  around  is  ringing  with  their  laugh- 
ter ; 
God  has  only  made  the  rich  to  smile  : 


LADY  WILDE— MARY  KELLY 


But  we,  in  our  rags  and  want  and  woe,  we 

follow  after, 
Weeping  the  while. 

And  the  laughter  seems  but  utter'd  to  de- 
ride us  : 

When,  oh  !  when, 
Will   fall   the  frozen  barriers  that  divide 

us 

From  other  men  ? 
Will    ignorance    for    ever    thus    enslave 

us  ! 

Will  misery  for  ever  lay  us  low  ? 
All  are   eager  with   their  insults,  but  to 

save  us 
None,  none,  we  know. 

We  never  knew  a  childhood's  mirth  and 

gladness, 
Nor  the  proud  heart  of  youth  free  and 

brave  ; 
Oh  !  a  death-like  dream  of  wretchedness 

and  sadness 
Is    our    life's    weary    journey    to    the 

grave. 

Day  by  day  we  lower  sink  and  lower, 
Till  the  god-like  soul  within 


Falls  crush' d,  beneath  the  fearful  demon 

power 
Of  poverty  and  sin. 

So  we  toil  on  —  on,  with  fever  burning 

In  heart  and  brain  ; 
So  we  toil  on  —  on,  through  bitter  scorning, 

Want,  woe  and  pain  : 

We  dare-  not  raise  our  eyes  to  the  blue 
heaven 

Or  the  toil  must  cease  ; 
We  dare  not  breathe  the  fresh  air  God  has 
given, 

One  hour  in  peace. 

We  must  toil,  though  the  light  of  life  is 

burning, 
Oh,  how  dim  ! 

We  must  toil  on  our  sick  bed,  feebly  turn- 
ing 

Our  eyes  to  Him 
Who  alone  can  hear  the  pale  lip  faintly. 

saying 

With  scarce  mov'd  breath, 
And  the  paler  hands,  uplifted,  and  the  pray- 
ing.— 
"  Lord,  grant  us  Death  I " 


TIPPERARY 

WERE  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where 

the  fields  are  so  sunny  and  green, 
And  the  heath-brown  Slieve-bloom  and  the 

Galtees  look  down  with  so  proud  a 

mien  ? 
'T  is  there  you  would  see  more  beauty  than 

is  on  all  Irish  ground  — 
God  bless  you,  my  sweet  Tipperary  !  for 

where  could  your  match  be  found  ? 

They  say  that  your  hand  is  fearful,  that 

darkness  is  in  your  eye  ; 
But  I  '11  not  let  them  dare  to  talk  so  black 

and  bitter  a  lie. 
0,  no  !  macushla  storin,  bright,  bright,  and 

warm  are  you, 
With  hearts  as  bold  as  the  men  of  old,  to 

yourself  and  your  country  true. 

And  when  there  is  gloom  upon  you,  bid 
them  think  who  brought  it  there  — 


Sure  a  frown  or  a  word  of  hatred  was  not 
made  for  your  face  so  fair  ; 

You  've  a  hand  for  the  grasp  of  friendship 
—  another  to  make  them  quake, 

And  they  're  welcome  to  whichsoever  it 
pleases  them  to  take. 

Shall  our  homes,  like  the  huts  of  Connaught, 

be  crumbled  before  our  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  fly,  like  a  flock  of  wild  geese,  from 

all  that  we  love  and  prize  ? 
No  !  by  those  that  were  here  before  us,  no 

churl  shall  our  tyrant  be, 
Our  land  it  is  theirs  by  plunder  —  but,  by 

Brigid,  ourselves  are  free  1 

No  !  we  do  not  forget  the  greatness  did 
once  to  sweet  Eire  belong  ; 

No  treason  or  craven  spirit  was  ever  our 
race  among ; 

And  no  frown  or  word  of  hatred  we  give  — • 
but  to  pay  them  back  ; 

In  evil  we  only  follow  our  enemies'  dark- 
some track. 


io6 


"THE  OATEN   FLUTE" 


O,  come  for  awhile  among  us  and  give  us 
the  friendly  hand  ! 

And  you  '11  see  that  old  Tipperary  is  a  lov- 
ing and  gladsome  land  ; 


From  Upper  to  Lower  Ormonde,  bright 
welcomes  and  smiles  will  spring  : 

On  the  plains  of  Tipperary  the  stranger  is 
like  a  king. 


€Hen 


WERE   I    BUT   HIS    OWN   WIFE 

WERE  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  guard  and  to 

guide  him, 
'T  is  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  my 

dear  ; 

I  'd  chant  my  low  love-verses,  stealing  be- 
side him, 
So  faint  and  so  tender  his  heart  would 

but  hear  ; 
I  'd  pull  the  wild  blossoms  from  valley  and 

highland, 
And  there  at  his  feet  I  would  lay  them 

all  down  ; 
I  'd  sing  him  the  songs  of  our  poor  stricken 

island, 

Till  his  heart  was  on  fire  with  a  love  like 
my  own. 

There  's  a  rose  by  his  dwelling,  —  I  'd  tend 

the  lone  treasure, 
That   he  might  have  flowers  when  the 

summer  would  come  ; 
There  's  a  harp  in  his  hall,  —  I  would  wake 

its  sweet  measure, 

For  he  must  have  music  to  brighten  his 
home. 


2Dotoning 


Were  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  guide  and  tc 

guard  him, 
'T  is  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  my 

dear  ; 
For  every  kind  glance  my  whole  life  would 

award  him, 

In  sickness  I  'd  soothe  and  in  sadness  I  'd 
cheer. 

My  heart  is  a  fount  welling  upward  for- 
ever ! 
When  I  think  of  my  true-love,  by  night 

•  or  by  day, 

That  heart  keeps  its  faith  like  a  fast-flow- 
ing river 
Which  gushes  forever  and  sings  on  its 

way. 
I  have  thoughts  full  of  peace  for  his  soul  to 

repose  in, 
•  Were  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  win  and  to 

woo  ; 
O  sweet,  if  the  night  of  misfortune  were 

closing, 

To  rise  like  the  morning  star,  darling, 
for  you  I 


"THE   OATEN   FLUTE" 


IDiHtam 

(DORSET) 


WOONE  SMILE  MWORE 

0  !  MEARY,  when  the  zun  went  down, 
Woone  night  in  spring,  w'  viry  rim, 

Behind  the  nap  wi'  woody  crown, 
An'  left  your  smilen  feace  so  dim  ; 


Your  little  sister  there,  inside, 
Wi'  bellows  on  her  little  knee, 

Did  blow  the  vire,  a-glearen  wide 

Drough   window-peanes,    that    I    could 
zee,  — 

As  you  did  stan'  wi'  me,  avore 

The  house,  a-pearten, — woone  smile  mwore, 


WILLIAM   BARNES 


107 


The  chatt'reu  birds,  a-risen  high, 

An'  zinken  low,  did  swiftly  vlee 
Vrom  shriuken  moss,  a-growen  dry, 

Upon  the  leanen  apple  tree. 
An'  there  the  dog,  a-whippen  wide 

His  heairy  tail,  an'  comen  near, 
Did  fondly  lay  agean  your  zide 

His  coal-black  nose  an'  russet  ear  : 
To  win  what  I  'd  a- won  avore, 
VTrom   your   gay   feace,   his    woone    smile 
mwore. 

An'  while  your  mother  bustled  sprack, 

A-getten  supper  out  in  hall, 
An'  cast  her  sheade,  a-whiv'ren  black 

Avore  the  vire,  upon  the  wall  ; 
Your  brother  come,  wi'  easy  peace, 

In  drough  the  slammen  geate,  along 
The  path,  wi'  healthy-bloomen  feace, 

A-whis'len  shrill  his  last  new  zong  : 
An'  when  he  come  avore  the  door, 
He  met  vrom  you  his  woone  smile  mwore. 

Now  you  that  wer  the  daughter  there, 

Be  mother  on  a  husband's  vloor, 
An'  mid  ye  meet  wi'  less  o'  ceare 

Than  what  your  hearty  mother  bore  ; 
An'  if  abroad  I  have  to  rue 

The  bitter  tongue,  or  wrongvul  deed, 
Mid  I  come  hwome  to  sheare  wi'  you 

What 's  needvul  free  o'  pinchen  need  : 
An'  vind  that  you  ha'  still  in  store 

My     evenen     meal,      an'    woone    smile 
mwore. 


BLACKMWORE   MAIDENS 

THE  primrwose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 
The  cowslip  in  the  zun, 
The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 
The  clote  where  streams  do  run  ; 
An'  where  do  pretty  maidens  grow 
An'  blow,  but  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  tuns, 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gai't, 
An'  pretty  feaces'  smiles, 
A-trippen  on  so  light  o'  wai'ght, 
An'  steppen  off  the  stiles  ; 
A-gwai'n  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 
An'  ring  'ithin  the  tow'r, 
You  'd  own  the  pretty  mai'dens'  pleace 
Is  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 


If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road, 

To  Stower  or  Paladore, 

An'  all  the  farmers'  housen  show'd 

Their  daughters  at  the  door  ; 

You  'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome  — 

"  Here,  come  :  'ithiu  an  hour 

You  '11  vind  ten  maidens  to  your  mind, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

An'  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door, 

To  zee  em  in  their  pleace, 

A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mother's  feace  ; 

You  'd  cry  —  "  Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r, 

Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

As  I  upon  my  road  did  pass 
A  school-house  back  in  May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass 
Wer  maidens  at  their  play  ; 
An'  as  the  pretty  souls  did  tweil 
An'  smile,  I  cried,  "  The  flow'r 
O'  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 
In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour." 

THE   HEARE 

(1)  THERE  be  the  greyhounds  !   lo'k  !  an' 

there  's  the  heare  ! 

(2)  What  houn's,  the  squier's,  Thomas  ? 

where,  then,  where  ? 

(1)  Why,  out  in  Ash  Hill,  near  the  barn, 

behind 

Thik  tree.      (3)  The   pollard?      (1)  Pol- 
lard !  no  !  b  'ye  blind  ? 

(2)  There,  I   do  zee  em  over-right   thik 

cow. 

(3)  The  red  woone  ?    (1)  No,  a  mile  be- 

yand  her  now. 

(3)    Oh  !  there 's  the  heare,  a-meaken  for 
the  drong. 

(2)  My   goodness  !    .  How   the   dogs    do 

zweep  along, 
A-poken  out  their  pweinted  noses'  tips. 

(3)  He  can't  allow  hizzelf  much  time  vor 

slips  ! 

(1)  They'll  hab  en,  after  all,  I'll  bet  a 

crown. 

(2)  Done   vor   a    crown.      They  woon't ! 

He  's  gwain  to  groun'. 

(3)  He  is  !    (1)  He  idden  !    (3)  Ah  !  'tis 

well  his  tooes 
Ha'  got  noo  corns,  inside  o'  hobnail  shoes. 


io8 


"THE  OATEN   FLUTE 


(1)    He  's  geame  a-runnen  too.     Why,  he 

do  mwore 
Than  earn  his  life.     (3)   His  life  wer  his 

avore. 
(1)    There,   now  the   dogs  wull   turn   en. 

(2)    No  !  He  's  right. 
(1)    He   idden!       (2)    Ees  he   is!       (3) 

He  's  out  o'  zight. 

(1)  Aye,  aye.     His  mettle  wull  be  well  a- 

tried 

Agwa'in  down  Verny  Hill,  o'  t'  other  zide. 
They  '11  have  en  there.     (3)    O  no  1  a  vew 

good  hops 
Wull  teake  en  on  to  Knapton  Lower  Copse. 

(2)  An'  that 's  a  meesh  that  he  've  a-took 

avore. 

(3)  Ees,   that's    his   hwome.      (1)  He'll 

never  reach  his  door. 
(2)    He  wull.     (1)    Hewoon't.     (3)    Now, 

hark,  d  'ye  hear  em  now  ? 
(2)    O  !  here  's  a  bwoy  a-come  athirt  the 

brow 
O' Knapton  Hill.   We '11  ax  en.    (1)  Here, 

my  bwoy  ! 
Canst   tell   us   where 's   the   heare  ?      (4) 

He  's  got  awoy. 

(2)   Ees,  got  awoy,  in  coo'se,  I  never  zeed 
A  heare  a-scoten  on  wi'  half  his  speed. 

(1)  Why,  there,  the  dogs  be  wold,  an'  half 

a-done. 
They  can 't  catch  anything  wi'  lags  to  run. 

(2)  Vrom  vu'st  to  last  they  had  but  little 

chance 
O'  catchen   o'  'n.     (3)   They  had  a  perty 

dance. 
(1)    No,  catch   en,  no  !     I   little  thought 

they  would  ; 
He  know'd  his  road  too  well  to  Knapton 

Wood. 

(3)  No  !  no  !     I  wish  the  squier  would  let 

me  feare 

On  rabbits  till  his  hounds   do  catch  thik 
heare. 

THE   CASTLE   RUINS 

A  HAPPY  day  at  Whitsuntide, 
As  soon  's  the  zun  begun  to  vail, 


We  all  stroll'd  up  the  steep  hill-zide 

To  Meldon,  gret  an'  small  ; 
Out  where  the  Castle  wall  stood  high 
A-mwoldren  to  the  zunny  sky. 

An*  there  wi'  Jenny  took  a  stroll 
Her  youngest  sister,  Poll,  so  gay, 

Bezide  John  Hind,  ah  !  merry  soul, 
An'  mid  her  wedlock  fay  ; 

An'  at  our  zides  did  play  an'  run 

My  little  mai'd  an'  smaller  son. 

Above  the  beaten  mwold  upsprung 
The  driven  doust,  a-spreaden  light, 

An'  on  the  new-leav'd  thorn,  a-hung, 
Wer  wool  a-quiv'ren  white  ; 

An'  corn,  a-sheenen  bright,  did  bow, 

On  slopen  Meldon's  zunny  brow. 

There,  down  the  roofless  wall  did  glow 
The  zun  upon  the  grassy  vloor, 

An'  weakly-wandren  winds  did  blow, 
Unhinder'd  by  a  door  ; 

An'  smokeless  now  avore  the  zun 

Did  stan'  the  ivy-girded  tun. 

My    bwoy    did    watch    the   daws'   bright 

wings 

A-flappen  vrom  their  ivy  bow'rs  ; 
My    wife     did    watch    my    maid's    light 

springs, 

Out  here  an'  there  vor  flow'rs  ; 
And  John  did  zee  noo  tow'rs,  the  pleace 
Vor  him  had  only  Polly's  feace. 

An'  there,  of  all  that  pried  about 
The  walls,  I  overlook'd  em  best, 

An'  what  o'  that  ?     Why,  I  meade  out 
Noo  mwore  than  all  the  rest : 

That  there  wer  woonce  the  nest  of  zome 

That  wer  a-gone  avore  we  come: 

When  woonce  above  the  tun  the  smoke 
Did  wreathy  blue  among  the  trees3 

An'  down  below,  the  liven  vo'k 
Did  tweil  as  brisk  as  bees  ; 

Or  zit  wi'  weary  knees,  the  while 

The  sky  wer  lightless  to  their  tweil. 


"THE  OATEN   FLUTE" 


109 


(LANCASHIRE) 


THE    BULK'S    I'    THIS    BONNET 
O'   MINE 

THE  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine  ; 

My  ribbins  '11  never  be  reet  ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw  'm  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie  '11  be  comin'  to-neet  ; 
He  met  me  i'  th'  lone  t'  other  day,  — 

Aw  're  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well,  — 
An'    he    begg'd    that   aw  'd    wed    him    i' 
May  ;  — 

Bi  th'  mass,  iv  he  '11  let  me,  aw  will  ! 

When  he  took  my  two  honds  into  his, 

Good  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between  ; 
An'  aw  durstn't  look  up  in  his  face, 

Becose  on  him  seein'  my  e'en  ; 
My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose  ;  — 

There  's  never  a  mortal  can  tell 
Heaw  happy  aw  felt  ;  for,  thea  knows, 

One  could  n't  ha'  ax'd  him  theirsel'. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung,  — 

To  let  it  eawt  would  n't  be  reet,  — 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrung, 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet  ; 
But  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel,  — 

Though  it  is  n't  a  thing  one  should  own,  — 
Iv  aw  'd  th'  pikein'  o'  th'  world  to  myseF, 

Aw  'd  oather  ha'  Jamie  or  noan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  tho  my  mind  ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  't  wur  thee  ? 
"  Aw  'd  tak  him  just  while  he  're  inclin'd, 

An'  a  farrantly  bargain  he  'd  be  ; 
For  Jamie  's  as  gradely  a  lad 

As  ever  stepp'd  eawt  into  th'  sun  ;  — 
Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed, 

An'  may  th'  best   o'  th'   job  when   it 's 
done  ! " 

Eh,  dear,  bitf  it 's  time  to  be  gwon,  — 

Aw  should  n't  like  Jamie  to  wait  ; 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon, 

An'  aw  would  n't  for  th'  world  be  too 

late  ; 
Aw  'm  o'  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel,  — 

Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet  '11  do  ?  — 
"  Be  off,  lass,  —  thae  looks  very  weel  ; 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo  !  " 


TH'   SWEETHEART   GATE 

OH,  there 's   mony  a  gate   eawt  ov  eawr 
teawn-end, 

But  nobbut  one  for  me  ; 
It  winds  by  a  rindlin'  wayter  side, 

An'  o'er  a  posied  lea, 
It  wanders  into  a  shady  dell  ; 

An'  when  aw  've  done  for  th'  day, 
Aw  never  can  sattle  this  heart  o'  mine, 

Beawt  walkin'  deawn  that  way. 

It 's  noather  garden,  nor  posied  lea, 

Nor  wayter  rindlin'  clear  ; 
But  deawn  i'  th  vale  there  's  a  rosy  nook, 

An'  my  true  love  lives  theer. 
It 's  olez  summer  where  th'  heart 's  content, 

Tho'  wintry  winds  may  blow  ; 
An'  there  's  never  a  gate  'at 's  so  kind  to  th' 
fuut, 

As  th'  gate  one  likes  to  go. 

When  aw  set  off  o'  sweetheartin,'  aw  've 

A  theawsan'  things  to  say  ; 
But  th'  very  first  glent  o'  yon  chimbley-top 

It  drives  'em  o'  away  ; 
An'  when  aw  meet  wi'  my  bonny  lass, 

It  sets  my  heart  a-jee  ;  — 
Oh,  there  's  summut  i'  th'  leet  o'  yon  two 
blue  e'en 

That  plays  the  dule  wi'  me  ! 

When  th'  layrock  's  finished  his  wark  aboon, 

An'  laid  his  music  by, 
He  flutters  deawn  to  his  mate,  an'  stops 

Till  dayleet  stirs  i'  th'  sky. 
Though  Matty  sends  me  away  at  dark, 

Aw  know  that  hoo  's  reet  full  well  ;  — 
An'  it 's  heaw  aw  love  a  true-hearted  lass, 

No  mortal  tung  can  tell  ! 

Aw  wish  that  Candlemas  day  were  past, 

When  wakin'  time  comes  on  ; 
An'  aw  wish  that  Kesmass  time  were  here, 

An'  Matty  an'  me  were  one. 
Aw  wish  this  wanderin'  wark  were  o'er  — 

This  maunderin'  to  an'  fro  ;  • 

That  aw  could  go  whoam  to  my  own  true 
love, 

An'  stop  at  neet  an'  o'. 


no 


"THE  OATEN   FLUTE" 


OWD    FINDER 

OWD  Pinder  were  a  rackless  foo, 

An'  spent  his  days  i'  spreein'  ; 
At  th'  end  ov  every  drinkin'-do, 

He  're  sure  to  crack  o'  deein'  ; 
"  Go,  sell  nay  rags,  an'  sell  my  shoon  ; 

Aw 's  never  live  to  trail  'em  ; 
My  ballis-pipes  are  eawt  o'  tune, 

An'  th'  wynt  begins  to  fail  'em  ! 

"  Eawr  Matty  's  very  fresh  an'  yung  ; 

'T  would  ony  mon  bewilder  ; 
Hoo  '11  wed  again  afore  it 's  lung, 

For  th'  lass  is  fond  o'  childer  ; 
My  bit  o'  brass  '11  fly,  —  yo  'n  see,  — 

When  th'  coffin-lid  has  screen'd  me  ; 
It  gwos  again  my  pluck  to  dee, 

An'  lev  her  wick  beheend  me. 

"  Come,  Matty,  come,  an'  cool  my  yed, 
Aw  'm  finish'd,  to  my  thinkin'  ; " 

Hoo  happ'd  him  nicely  up,  an'  said,  — 
"  Thae  's  brought  it  on  wi'  drinkin' !  " 


"  Nay,    nay,"     said    he,     "  my    fuddle  's 
done  ; 

We  're  partin'  t'  one  fro'  t'  other  ; 
So,  promise  me  that  when  a  'm  gwon, 

Thea  '11  never  wed  another  !  " 

"  Th'   owd   tale,"   said   hoo,    an'   laf t   her 
stoo, 

"  It 's  rayley  past  believin'  ; 
Thee  think  o'  th'  world  thea  'rt  goin'  to, 

An'  leave  this  world  to  th'  livin'  ; 
What  use  to  me  can  deead  folk  be  ? 

Thae  's  kilt  thisel'  wi  spreein'  ; 
An'  iv  that 's  o'  thae  wants  wi'  me, 

Get  forrud  wi'  thi  deein' !  " 

He  scrat  his  yed,  he  rubb'd  his  e'e, 

An'  then  he  donn'd  his  breeches  ; 
"  Eawr  Matty  gets  as  fause,"  said  he, 

"  As  one  o'  Pendle  witches  ; 
Iv  ever  aw  'm  to  muster  wit, 

It  mun  be  now  or  never  ; 
Aw  think  aw  '11  try  to  live  a  bit  ; 

It  would  n't  do  to  lev  her  ! " 


Slapcocfe 


(LANCASHIRE) 


WELCOME,   BONNY   BRID ! 

THA  'rt  welcome,  little  bonny  brid, 
But   should  n't   ha'  come   just   when  tha 
did; 

Toimes  are  bad. 

We  're  short  o'  pobbies  for  eawr  Joe, 
But  that,  of  course,  tha  did  n't  know, 

Did  ta,  lad  V 

Aw've  often  yeard  mi  feyther  tell, 
'At  when  aw  coom  i'  th'  world  misel 

Trade  wur  slack  ; 

An'  neaw  it 's  hard  wark  pooin'  throo  — 
But  aw  munno  fear  thee  ;  iv  aw  do 

Tha  '11  go  back. 

Cheer  up  !  these  toimes  'ull  awter  soon  ; 
Aw  'm  beawn  to  beigh  another  spoon  — 
•  One  for  thee  ; 

An'  as  tha  's  sich  a  pratty  face, 
Aw '11  let  thee  have  eawr  Charley's  place 
On  mi  knee. 


God  bless  thee,  love,  aw  'm  fain  tha  'rt  come, 
Just  try  an'  mak  thisel  awhoam  : 

What  ar 't  co'd  ?    ' 
Tha  'rt  loike  thi  mother  to  a  tee, 
But  tha 's  thi  f eyther's  nose,  aw  see, 

Well,  aw  'm  blow'd  ! 

Come,  come,  tha  need  n't  look  so  shy, 
Aw  am  no'  blackin'  thee,  not  I  ; 

Settle  deawn, 

An'  tak  this  hfiup'ney  for  thisel', 
There  's  lots  o'  su  gar-sticks  to  sell 

Deawn  i'  th'  teawn. 

Aw  know  when  furst  aw  coom  to  th'  leet 
Aw  're  fond  o'  owt  'at  tasted  sweet ; 

Tha  '11  be  th'  same. 
But  come,  tha 's  never  towd  thi  dad 
What  he  's  to  co  thi  yet,  mi  lad  — 

What 's  thi  name  ? 

Hush  !  hush  !  tha  munno  cry  this  way, 
But  get  this  sope  o'  cinder  tay 
While  it 's  warm  j 


LAYCOCK—  ELLIOTT 


in 


Mi  mother  us'd  to  give  it  me, 
Wkeii  aw  wur  sich  a  lad  as  thee, 
In  her  arm. 

Hush  a  babby,  hush  a  bee  — 
Oh,  what  a  temper  !  dear  a-me, 

Heaw  tha  skroikes  ! 
Here  's  a  bit  o'  sugar,  sithee  ; 
Howd  thi  noise,  an'  then  aw  '11  gie  thee 

Owt  tha  loikes. 

We  'n  nobbut  getten  coarsish  fare, 
But  eawt  o'  this  tha  'st  ha'  thi  share, 

Never  fear. 

Aw  hope  tha  '11  never  want  a  meel, 
But  allus  fill  thi  ballv  weel 

While  tha  'i-t  here. 


Thi  feyther  's  noan  bin  wed  so  long, 
An'  yet  tha  sees  he  's  middliu'  throng 

Wi'  yo'  o  : 

Besides  thi  little  brother,  Ted, 
We  'n  one  up-steers,  asleep  i'  bed 

Wi'  eawr  Joe. 

But  though  we  'n  childer  two  or  three, 
We  '11  mak'  a  bit  o'  reawm  for  thee  — 

Bless  thee,  lad  ! 
Tha  'rt   th'  prattiest   brid   we   ban  i' 

nest ; 
Come,  hutch  up  closer  to  mi  breast  — 

Aw  'm  thi  dad. 


th1 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 

(HUMANITY  —  FREE  THOUGHT  —  POLITICAL,   SOCIAL,  AND  ARTISTIC,   REFORM) 


ELEGY   ON   WILLIAM    COBBETT 

O  BEAR  ,  him  where  the  rain  can  fall, 
And  where  the  winds  can  blow  ; 

And  let  the  sun  weep  o'er  his  pall 
As  to  the  grave  ye  go  ! 

And  in  some  little  lone  churchyard, 

Beside  the  growing  corn, 
Lay  gentle  Nature's  stern  prose  bard, 

Her  mightiest  peasant-born. 

Yes  !  let  the  wild-flower  wed  his  grave, 

That  bees  may  murmur  near, 
When  o'er  his  last  home  bend  the  brave, 

And  say  —  "A  man  lies  here  !  " 

For  Britons  honor  Cobbett's  name, 

Though  rashly  oft  he  spoke  ; 
And  none  can  scorn,  and  few  will  blame, 

The  low-laid  heart  of  oak. 

See,  o'er  his  prostrate  branches,  see  ! 

E'en  factious  hate  consents 
To  reverence,  in  the  fallen  tree, 

His  British  lineaments. 


Though   gnarl'd   the   storm-toss'd   boughs 
that  brav'd 

The  thunder's  gather'd  scowl, 
Not  always  through  his  darkness  rav'd 

The  storm-winds  of  the  soul. 

O,  no  !  in  hours  of  golden  calm 

Morn  met  his  forehead  bold  ; 
And  breezy  evening  sang  her  psalm 

Beneath  his  dew-dropp'd  gold. 

The  wren  its  crest  of  fibred  fire 
With  his  rich  bronze  compar'd, 

While  many  a  youngling's  songful  sire 
His  acorn'd  twiglets  shar'd. 

The  lark,  above,  sweet  tribute  paid, 
Where  clouds  with  light  were  riven  ; 

And  true  love  sought  his  bluebell'd  shade, 
"  To  bless  the  hour  of  heaven." 

E'en  when  his  stormy  voice  was  loud, 
And  guilt  quak'd  at  the  sound, 

Beneath  the  frown  that  shook  the  proud 
The  poor  a  shelter  found. 


112 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


Dead  oak  !  thou  livest.    Thy  smitten  hands, 

The  thunder  of  thy  brow, 
Speak  with  strange  tongues  in  many  lands, 

And  tyrants  hear  thee,  now  ! 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  name, 

Inspir'd  by  thy  renown, 
Shall  future  patriots  rise  to  fame, 

And  many  a  sun  go  down. 

A   POET'S   EPITAPH 

STOP,  mortal  !     Here  thy  brother  lies  — 

The  poet  of  the  poor. 
His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 

The  meadow  and  the  moor  ; 
His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart's  wail, 

The  tyrant  and  the  slave, 
The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace  —  and  the  grave. 
Sin  met  thy  brother  everywhere  ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blam'd  ? 
From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claim'd. 
The  meanest  thing,  earth's  feeblest  worm, 

He  fear'd  to  scorn  or  hate  ; 
But,  honoring  in  a  peasant's  form 

The  equal  of  the  great, 
He  bless'd  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 

The  poor  man's  little,  more  ; 
Yet  loath'd  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 

From  plunder'd  labor's  store. 


A  hand  to  do,  a  head  to  plan, 

A  heart  to  feel  and  dare  — 

Tell  man's  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 
Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

THE   BUILDERS 

SPRING,  summer,  autumn,  winter, 

Come  duly,  as  of  old  ; 
Winds  blow,  suns  set,  and  morning  saith, 

"  Ye  hills,  put  on  your  gold." 

The  song  of  Homer  liveth, 

Dead  Solon  is  not  dead  ; 
Thy  splendid  name,  Pythagoras, 

O'er  realms  of  suns  is  spread. 

But  Babylon  and  Memphis 

Are  letters  traced  in  dust : 
Read  them,  earth's  tyrants  !  ponder  well 

The  might  in  which  ye  trust  ! 

They  rose,  while  all  the  depths  of  guilt 
Their  vain  creators  sounded  ; 

They  fell,  because  on  fraud  and  force 
Their  corner-stones  were  founded. 

Truth,  mercy,  knowledge,  justice, 
Are  powers  that  ever  stand  ; 

They  build  their  temples  in  the  soul, 
And  work  with  God's  right  baud. 


William 


THE   BARONS    BOLD 

THE  Barons  bold  on  Runnymede 

By  union  won  their  charter  ; 
True  men  were  they,  prepar'd  to  bleed, 

But  not  their  rights  to  barter  : 
And  they  swore  that  England's  laws 

Were  above  a  tyrant's  word  ; 
And  they  prov'd  that  freedom's  cause 
Was  above  a  tyrant's  sword  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  memory 

Of  those  Barons  brave  united  ; 
And  like  their  band, 
Join  hand  to  hand  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  soon  be  righted. 


The  Commons  brave,  in  Charles's  time, 

By  union  made  the  Crown  fall, 
And  show'd  the  world  how  royal  crime 

Should  lead  to  royal  downfall  : 
And  they  swore  that  rights  and  laws 

Were  above  a  monarch's  word  ; 
And  they  raised  the  nation's  cause 
Above  the  monarch's  sword  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  memory 

Of  those  Commons  brave,  united  ; 
And  like  their  band, 
Join  hand  to  hand  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  soon  be  righted. 

The  People  firm,  from  Court  and  Peers, 
By  union  won  Reform,  sirs, 


FOX— HOOD 


And,  union  safe,  the  nation  steers 

Through   sunshine  and   through   storm, 

sirs  : 
And  we  swear  that  equal  laws 

Shall  prevail  o'er  lordlings'  words, 
And  can  prove  that  freedom's  cause 
Is  too  strong  for  hireling  swords  : 
Then  honor  we 
The  victory 

Of  the  people  brave,  united  ; 
Let  all  our  bands 
Join  hearts  and  hands  : 
Our  wrongs  shall  all  be  righted. 

LIFE    IS    LOVE 

THE  fair  varieties  of  earth, 

The  heavens  serene  and  blue  above, 
The  rippling  smile  of  mighty  seas  — 

What  is  the  charm  of  all,  but  love  ? 


By  love  they  minister  to  thought, 

Love    makes   them    breathe    the   poet's 
song; 

When  their  Creator  best  is  prais'd, 
'T  is  loVe  inspires  the  adoring  throng. 

Knowledge,  and  power,  and  will  supremes 

Are  but  celestial  tyranny, 
Till  they  are  consecrate  by  love, 

The  essence  of  divinity. 

For  love  is  strength,  and  faith,  and  hope  ; 

It  crowns  with  bliss  our  mortal  state  ; 
And,  glancing  far  beyond  the  grave, 

Foresees  a  life  of  endless  date. 

That  life  is  love  ;  and  all  of  life 

Time  or  eternity  can  prove  ; 
Both  men  and  angels,  worms  and  gods, 

Exist  in  universal  love. 


'T  WAS  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 
And  four-and-twenty  happy  boys 

Came  bounding  out  of  school  : 
There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that 
leap'd, 

Like  troutlets  in  a  pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 

And  souls  untouch'd  by  sin  ; 
To  a  level  mead  they  came,  and  there 

They  drave  the  wickets  in  : 
Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 

Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  cours'd  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran, 
Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can  ; 
But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A  melancholy  man  ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 
To  catch  heaven's  blessed  breeze  ; 

For  a  burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease  : 

So  he  lean'd  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  read 
The  book  between  his  knees. 


Leaf  after  leaf,  he  turn'd  it  o'er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside, 
For  the  peace  of   his   soul    he    read  that 
book 

In  the  golden  eventide  : 
Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden-eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome, 
With  a  fast  and  fervent  grasp 

He  straiu'd  the  dusky  covers  close, 
And  fix'd  the  brazen  hasp  : 

"  Oh,  God  !  could  I  so  close  my  mind, 
And  clasp  it  with  a  clasp  !  " 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 
Some  moody  turns  he  took,  — 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  "down  the  mead., 
And  past  a  shady  nook,  — 

And,  lo  !  he  saw  a  little  boy 
That  por'd  upon  a  book 

"  My  gentle  lad,  what  is  't  you  read  — 

Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 
Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ?  " 
The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance,  — r 

« It  is  '  The  Death  of  Abel.'  " 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain, 
Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again  ; 
And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talk'd  with  him  of  Cain  ; 

And,  Jong  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 

Whose  deeds  tradition  saves  ; 
Of  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves  ; 
Of  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves  ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injur'd  men 

Shriek  upward  from  the  sod  ; 
Aye,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 

To  show  the  burial  clod  ; 
And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 

Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God  ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 

Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain, 
With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 

And  flames  about  their  brain  : 
For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 

Its  everlasting  stain. 

"  And  well,"  quoth  he,  "  I  know,  for  truth, 
Their  pangs  must  be  extreme,  — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe,  — 
Who  spill  life's  sacred  stream  ! 

For  why  ?  Methought,  last  night,  I  wrought 
A  murder,  in  a  dream  ! 

"  One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong, 

A  feeble  man  and  old  : 
I  led  him  to  a  lonely  field  ; 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold  : 
Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I  will  have  his  gold  ! 

C(  Two  sudden  blows  with  a  ragged  stick, 

And  one  with  a  heavy  stone, 
One  hurried  gash  with  a  hasty  knife,  — 

And  then  the  deed  was  done  ; 
There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  foot 

But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone  ! 

"  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 

That  could  not  do  me  ill  ; 
And  yet  I  fear'd  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still  : 
There  was  a  manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill 


"  And,  lo  !  the  universal  air 
Seem'd  lit  with  ghastly  flame  ; 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame  : 

I  took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 
And  call'd  upon  his  name  ! 

"  Oh,  God  !  it  made  me  quake  to  see 

Such  sense  within  the  slain  ! 
But  when  I  touch'd  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gush'd  out  amain  ! 
For  every  clot,  a  burning  spot 

Was  scorching  in  my  brain  ! 

"  My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal, 

My  heart  as  solid  ice  ; 
My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I  knew, 

Was  at  the  Devil's  price  ; 
A  dozen  times  I  groan'd  :  the  dead 

Had  never  groan'd  but  twice. 

"  And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  Heaven's  topmost  height, 

I  heard  a  voice  —  the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite  : 

'  Thou  guilty  man  !  take  up  thy  dead 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight  ! ' 

"  I  took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a  stream, 
A  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme  :  — 
My  gentle  Boy,  remember  this 

Is  nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

"  Down  went  the  corse  with  hollow  plunge 

And  vanish'd  in  the  pool  ; 
Anon  I  cleans'd  my  bloody  hands, 

And  wash'd  my  forehead  cool, 
And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

"  Oh,  Heaven  !  to  think  of  their  white  souls, 

And  mine  so  black  and  grim  ! 
I  could  not  share  in  childish  prayer 

Nor  join  in  Evening  Hymn  : 
Like  a  Devil  of  the  Pit  I  seem'd, 

'Mid  holy  Cherubim  ! 

"  And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread  ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  Chamberlain 
That  lighted  me  to  bed, 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round, 
With  fingers  bloody  red  ! 


THOMAS   HOOD 


"5 


*  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep, 
My  fever'd  eyes  I  dar'd  not  close, 

But  star'd  aghast  at  Sleep  : 
For  Sin  had  render'd  unto  her 

The  keys  of  hell  to  keep. 

"  All  night  I  lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  rack'd  me  all  the  time  ; 
A  mighty  yearning  like  the  first 

Fierce  impulse  unto  crime  ; 

"  One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 

All  other  thoughts  its  slave  : 
Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 

Did  that  temptation  crave, 
Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 

The  Dead  Man  in  his  grave  ! 

"  Heavily  I  rose  up,  as  soon 

As  light  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 

With  a  wild  misgiving  eye  : 
And  I  saw  the  Dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

"  Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 

The  dew-drop  from  its  wing  ; 
But  I  never  mark'd  its  morning  flight, 

I  never  heard  it  sing, 
For  I  was  stooping  once  again 

Under  the  horrid  thing. 

"  With  breathless  speed,  like  a  soul  in  chase, 

1  took  him  up  and  ran  ; 
There  was  no  time  to  dig  a  grave 

Before  the  day  began  : 
In  a  lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 

I  hid  the  murder'd  man. 

"  And  all  that  day  I  read  in  school, 
But  my  thought  was  other  where  ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 
In  secret  I  was  there  ; 

And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare  ! 

"  Then  down  I  cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 
For  I  knew  fay  secret  then  was  one 

That  earth  refus'd  to  keep  : 
Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 

Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 


"  So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  Sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones  ! 
Aye,  though  he  's  buried  in  a  cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 
And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh,  — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones. 

"  Oh,  God  !  that  horrid,  horrid  dream 

Besets  me  now  awake  ! 
Again  —  again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I  take  ; 
And    my   red   right    hand    grows   raging 
hot, 

Like  Cranmer's  at  the  stake. 

"  And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 

Will  wave  or  mould  allow  ; 
The  horrid  thing  pursues  nay  soul,  — 

It  stands  before  me  now  ! " 
The  fearful  Boy  look'd  up,  and  saw 

Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 

The  urchin  eyelids  kiss'd, 
Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn, 

Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 
And  Eugene  Aram  walk'd  between, 

With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

FLOWERS 

I  WILL  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turn'd  by  the  sun  ; 
The  tulip  is  a  courtly  quean, 
Whom,  therefore  I  will  shun  ; 
The  cowslip  is  a  country  wench, 
The  violet  is  a  nun  ; 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a  wanton  witch, 
In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 
And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 
The  wolfsbane  I  should  dread  ; 
Nor  will  I  dreary  rosemarye, 
That  always  mourns  the  dead  ; 
But  I  will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 
With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a  saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me, 

And   the   daisy's  cheek   is   tipp'd  with   a 

blush, 
She  is  of  such  low  degree  ; 


n6 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 
And  the  broom  's  betroth'd  to  the  bee  ; 
But  I  will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 
For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 


FAIR    INES 

O  SAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 
She  's  gone  into  the  West, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 
And  rob  the  world  of  rest  : 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 
The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Ines, 
Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  Moon  should  shine  alone, 

And  stars  unrivall'd  bright  ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 

That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1  dare  not  even  write. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whisper'd  thee  so  near  ! 

Were  there  no  bouny  dames  at  home, 

Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 

The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

I  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  wav'd  before  ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 

And  snowy  plumes  they  wore  ;  — 

It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream,  — 

If  it  had  been  no  more  ! 

Alas,  alas,  fair  Ines, 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  Music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

But  only  Music's  wrong, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell, 

To  her  you  Ve  lov'd  so  long. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines  ! 
That  vessel  never  bore 


So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck, 

Nor  danced  so  light  before  : 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore  ! 

The  smile  that  bless'd  one  lover's  heart 

Has  broken  many  more  ! 

THE   DEATH-BED 

WE  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  mov'd  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  clos'd  —  she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

BALLAD 

IT  was  not  in  the  winter 
Oiir  loving  lot  was  cast  ; 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

That  churlish  season  never  frown'd 
On  early  lovers  yet  : 
Oh,  no  —  the  world  was  newly  crown'd 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met ! 

'T  was  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  heLl  me  fast  ; 

It  was  the  time  of  roses, 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

What  else  could  peer  thy  glowing  cheek, 
That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  ask'd  the  like  of  Love, 
You  snatch'd  a  damask  bud  ; 

And  op'd  it  to  the  dainty  core,. 
Still  glowing  to  the  last. 
It  was  the  time  of  roses, 
W"e  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 


THOMAS   HOOD 


117 


LEAR 

A  POOR  old  king  with  sorrow  for  my  crown, 
Thron'd  upon  straw,  and  mantled  with  the 

wind  — 

For  pity,  my  own  tears  have  made  me  blind 
That  I  might  never  see  my  children's  frown  ; 
And  maybe  madness  like  a  friend  has 

thrown 

A  folded  fillet  over  my  dark  mind, 
So   that   unkindly  speech  may   sound   for 

kind, — 

Albeit  I  know  not.  —  I  am  childish  grown, 
And  have  not  gold  to  purchase  wit  withal, 
I  that  have  once  maintain'd  most  royal 

state, 

A  very  bankrupt  now  that  may  not  call 
My  child,  my  child  —  all-beggar'd  save  in 

tears, 
Wherewith   I  daily    weep  an  old   man's 

fate, 
Foolish  —  and  blind  —  and  overcome  with 

years  ! 

BALLAD 

SPRING  it  is  cheery, 

Winter  is  dreary, 
Green  leaves  hang,  but  the  brown  must  fly  ; 

When  he  's  forsaken, 

Wither'd  and  shaken, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Love  will  not  clip  him, 

Maids  will  not  lip  him, 
Maud  and  Marian  pass  him  by  ; 

Youth  it  is  sunny, 

Age  has  no  honey, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

June  it  was  jolly, 

O  for  its  folly  ! 
A  dancing  leg  and  a  laughing  eye  ; 

Youth  may  be  silly, 

Wisdom  is  chilly, 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 

Friends  they  are  scanty, 

Beggars  are  plenty, . 
If  he  has  followers,  I  know  why  ; 

Gold 's  in  his  clutches, 

(Buying  him  crutches  !) 
What  can  an  old  man  do  but  die  ? 


FROM  "MISS  KILMANSEGG  AND 
HER   PRECIOUS    LEG" 

HER   DEATH 

'T  IS  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think 
How  often  mortality  stands  on  the  brink 

Of  its  grave  without  any  misgiving  : 
And  yet  in  this  slippery  world  of  strife, 
In  the  stir  of  human  bustle  so  rife, 
There  are  daily  sounds  to  tell  us  that  Life 

Is  dying,  and  Death  is  living  ! 

Ay,  Beauty  the  Girl,  and  Love  the  Boy, 
Bright  as  they  are  with  hope  and  joy, 

How  their  souls  would  sadden  instanter, 
To  remember  that  one  of  those  wedding 

bells, 

Which  ring  so  merrily  through  the  dells, 
Is  the  same  that  knells 
Our  last  farewells, 
Only  broken  into  a  canter  ! 

But  breath  and  blood  set  doom  at  nought  : 
How  little  the  wretched  Countess  thought, 

When  at  night  she  unloos'd  her  sandal, 
That  the  Fates  had  woven  her  burial  cloth, 
And  that  Death,  in  the  shape  of  a  Death's 
Head  Moth, 

Was  fluttering  round  her  candle  ! 

As  she  look'd  at  her  clock  of  or-molu, 
For  the   hours   she   had  gone  so  wearily 
through 

At  the  end  of  a  day  of  trial, 
How  little  she  saw  in  her  pride  of  prime 
The  dart  of  Death  in  the  Hand  of  Time  — 

That  hand  which  mov'd  on  the  dial  ! 

As  she  went  with  her  taper  up  the  stair, 
How  little  her  swollen  eye  was  aware 

That  the   Shadow   which  follow'd   was 

double  ! 

Or  when  she  clos'd  her  chamber  door, 
It  was  shutting  out,  and  for  evermore, 

The  world  —  and  its  worldly  trouble. 

Little  she  dreamt,  as  she  laid  aside 
Her  jewels,  after  one  glance  of  pride, 

They  were  solemn  bequests  to  Vanity  ; 
Or  when  her  robes  she  began  to  doff 
That  she  stood  so  near  to  the  putting  off 

Of  the  flesh  that  clothes  humanity. 


n8 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


And  when  she  qnench'd  the  taper's  light, 
How  little  she  thought,  as  the  smoke  took 

flight, 
That  her  day  was  done  —  and  merged  in  a 

night 

Of  dreams  and  durations  uncertain, 
Or,  along  with  her  own, 
That  a  Hand  of  Bone 
Was  closing  mortality's  curtain  ! 

But  life  is  sweet,  and  mortality  blind, 
And  youth  is  hopeful,  and  Fate  is  kind 

In  concealing  the  day  of  sorrow  ; 
And  enough  is  the  present  tense  of  toil, 
For  this  world  is  to  all  a  stiffish  soil, 
And  the  mind  flies  back  with  a  glad  recoil 

From  the  debts  not  due  till  to-morrow. 

Wherefore  else  does  the  spirit  fly 
And  bids  its  daily  cares  good-bye, 

Along  with  its  daily  clothing  ? 
Just  as  the  felon  condemn'd  to  die, 

With  a  very  natural  loathing, 
Leaving  the  Sheriff  to  dream  of  ropes, 
From  his  gloomy  cell  in  a  vision  elopes 
To  caper  on  sunny  greens  and  slopes, 

Instead  of  the  dance  upon  nothing. 

Thus,  even  thus,  the  Countess  slept, 
While  Death  still  nearer  and  nearer  crept, 
Like  the  Thane  who  smote  the  sleeping  ; 
But  her  mind  was  busy  with  early  joys, 
Her  golden  treasures  and  golden  toys, 
That  flash'd  a  bright 
And  golden  light 
Under  lids  still  red  with  weeping. 

The  golden  doll  that  she  used  to  hug  ! 
Her  coral  of  gold,  and  the  golden  mug  ! 

Her  godfather's  golden  presents  ! 
The  golden  service  she  had  at  her  meals, 
The  golden  watch,  and  chain,  and  seals, 
Her  golden  scissors,  and  thread,  and  reels, 

And  her  golden  fishes  and  pheasants! 

The  golden  guineas  in  silken  purse, 

And  the  Golden  Legends  she  heard  from 

her  nurse, 

Of  the  Mayor  in  his  gilded  carriage, 
And  London  streets  that  were  pav'd  with 

gold, 

And  the  Golden  Eggs  that  were  laid  of  old, 
With  each  golden  thing 
To  the  golden  ring 
At  her  own  auriferous  Marriage  I 


And  still  the  golden  light  of  the  sun 
Through  her  golden  dream  appear'd  to  run. 
Though  the  night  that  roar'd  without  was 
one 

To  terrify  seamen  or  gypsies, 
While  the  moon,  as  if  in  malicious  mirth, 
Kept  peeping  down  at  the  ruffled  earth, 
As  though  she  enjoy'd  the  tempest's  birth, 

In  revenge  of  her  old  eclipses. 

But  vainly,  vainly,  the  thunder  fell, 

For  the  soul  of  the  Sleeper  was  under  a  spell 

That  time  had  lately  embitter'd  : 
The  Count,  as  once  at  her  foot  he  knelt  — 
That  foot  which  now  he  wanted  to  melt ! 
But  —  hush  !  —  't  was  a  stir  at  her  pillow 
'     she  felt, 

And  some  object  before  her  glitter'd. 

'T  was  the  Golden   Leg  !  —  she   knew  its 

gleam ! 
And  up  she  started,  and  tried  to  scream,  — 

But,  ev'n  in  the  moment  she  started, 
Down  came  the  limb  with  a  frightful  smash, 
And,  lost  in  the  universal  flash 
That  her  eyeballs  made  at  so  mortal  a  crash, 

The  Spark,  call'd  Vital,  departed  I 

Gold,  still  gold  !  hard,  yellow,  and  cold, 
For  gold  she   had  liv'd,  and  she  died  for 
gold, 

By  a  golden  weapon  —  not  oaken  ; 
In  the  morning  they  found  her  all  alone  — 
Stiff,  and  bloody,  and  cold  as  stone  — 
But  her  Leg,  the  Golden  Leg,  was  gone, 

And  the  "  Golden  Bowl  was  broken  !  " 

Gold  —  still  gold  !  it  haunted  her  yet  : 
At  the  Golden  Lion  the  Inquest  met  — 

Its  foreman  a  carver  and  gilder, 
And  the  Jury  debated  from  twelve  till  three 
What  the  Verdict  ought  to  be, 
And  they  brought  it  in  as  Felo-de-Se, 

"  Because  her  own  Leg  had  kill'd  her  ! " 

HER  MORAL 

Gold  !    Gold  !    Gold  !    Gold  ! 
Bright  and  yellow,  hard  and  cold, 
Molten,  graven,  hammer'd,  and  roll'd  ; 
Heavy  to  get,  and  light  to  hold  ; 
Hoarded,  barter'd,  bought,  and  sold, 
Stolen,  borrow'd,  squander'd,  doled  : 
Spurn'd  by  the  young,  but  hngg'd  by  the  old 
To  the  very  verge  of  the  churchyard  mould  ; 


THOMAS   HOOD 


119 


Price  of  many  a  crime  untold  ; 
Gold  !  Gold  !  Gold !  Gold  ! 
Good  or  bad  a  thousand-fold  ! 

How  widely  its  agencies  vary  : 
To  save  —  to  ruin  —  to  curse  —  to  bless  — 
As  even  its  minted  coins  express, 
Now  stamp'd  with  the  image  of  Good  Queen 
Bess, 

And  now  of  a  bloody  Mary. 

RUTH 

SHE  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripen 'd  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell, 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks  : 

Sure,  I  said,  heav'n  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean, 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

THE   WATER   LADY 

ALAS,  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  1 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair,  was  she  ! 

I  stayed  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 

I  stayed  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 


I  stayed  to  watch,  a  little  space, 
Her  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing  ; 
The  waters  clos'd  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  stayed  a  little  more  : 
Alas,  she  never  comes  again  ! 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

I  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
I  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine, 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she  's  divine  ! 


ODE 
AUTUMN 

I 

I  SAW  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless,  like  silence)  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ;  — 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ?  —  With 

the  sun, 

®ping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  south, 
Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 
And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous 

mouth. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ?  — Away,  away, 
On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement 

skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 
Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrou; 
eyes. 

Ill 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer? — ID 

the  west, 

Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the   mild  Eve   by  sudden  Night  is 

prest 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her 

flow'rs 
To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 


120 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer,  —  the  green 

prime,  — 
The  many,  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ?  — 

Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm  ;  three  on  the  naked 

lime 
Trembling,  — -  and   one  upon  the  old   oak 

tree  1 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ?  — 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  Winter  through 
In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 


IV 


The   squirrel   gloats   on   his   accomplish'd 

hoard, 
The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with 

ripe  grain, 

And  honey  bees  have  stor'd 
The  sweets   of  Summer  in  their  luscious 

cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the 

main  ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 
Alone,  alone, 
Upon  a  mossy  stone, 
She   sits   and   reckons    up   the    dead  and 

gone 

With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away,« 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the 

last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 


0  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair  : 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 
To   make    her    bower,  —  and    enough    of 

gloom  ; 

There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the   rose   that   died,  —  whose 

doom 

Is  Beauty's,  —  she  that  with  the  living  bloom 
Of  conscious   cheeks  most  beautifies   the 

light  ;  — 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 


Enough   of   bitter   fruits   the    earth    doth 

bear,  — 
Enough     of     chilly     droppings      for     her 

bowl  ; 

Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair, 
To    frame     her    cloudy    prison     for    the 

soul  I 


THE    SONG   OF   THE   SHIRT 

WITH  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 
In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch 
She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  !  " 

"  Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof  J 
And  work  —  work  —  work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  ! 
It 's  Oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work  ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim. 
Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  ' 

"  Oh,  Men,  with  Sisters  dear  t 

Oh,  Men,  with  Mothers  and  Wives  ! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  ! 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  Shroud  as  well  as  a  Shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  Death  ? 

That  Phantom  of  grisly  bone, 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 
Oh,  God  !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 


THOMAS   HOOD 


121 


"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 
That  shatter'd  roof  —  and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there. 

u  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 

Work  —  work  —  work  — 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 
Till   the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numb'd, 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"  Work  —  work  —  work, 
In  the  dull  December  light, 

And  work  —  work  —  work, 
When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright, 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  Oh  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet, 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal, 

"  Oh,  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief  ! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief  ! 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart, 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A.  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 
Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch, 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  Rich  ! 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt !  " 


THE   LAY   OF    THE   LABORER 

A  SPADE  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill  ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will, 
And  here  's  a  ready  hand 

To  ply  the  needful  tool, 
And  skill'd  enough,  by  lessons  rough, 

In  Labor's  rugged  school. 

To  hedge,  or  dig  the  ditch, 

To  lop  or  fell  the  tree, 
To  lay  the  swarth  on  the  sultry  field, 

Or  plough  the  stubborn  lea  ; 
The  harvest  stack  to  bind, 

The  wheaten  rick  to  thatch, 
And  never  fear  in  my  pouch  to  find 

The  tinder  or  the  match. 

To  a  flaming  barn  or  farm 

My  fancies  never  roam  ; 
The  fire  I  yearn  to  kindle  and  burn 

Is  on  the  hearth  of  Home  ; 
Where  children  huddle  and  crouch 

Through  dark  long  winter  days, 
Where  starving  children  huddle  and  crouch, 

To  see  the  cheerful  rays 
A-glowing  on  the  haggard  cheek, 

And  not  in  the  haggard's  blaze  ! 

To  Him  who  sends  a  drought 

To  parch  the  fields  forlorn, 
The  rain  to  flood  the  meadows  with  mud, 

The  blight  to  blast  the  corn, 
To  Him  I  leave  to  guide 

The  bolt  in  its  crooked  path, 
To  strike  the  miser's  rick,  and  show 

The  skies  blood-red  with  wrath. 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill  ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  ; 
The  corn  to  thrash,  or  the  hedge  to  plash, 

The  market-team  to  drive, 
Or  mend  the  fence  by  the  cover  side, 

And  leave  the  game  alive. 

Ay,  only  give  me  work, 

And  then  you  need  not  fear 
That  I  shall  snare  his  worship's  hare, 

Or  kill  his  grace's  deer  ; 
Break  into  his  lordship's  house, 

To  steal  the  plate  so  rich  ; 


122 


POETS   OF   THE    NEW  DAY 


Or  leave  the  yeoman  that  had  a  purse 
To  welter  in  a  ditch. 

Wherever  Nature  needs, 

Wherever  Labor  calls, 
No  job  I  '11  shirk  of  the  hardest  work, 

To  shun  the  workhouse  walls  ; 
Where  savage  laws  begrudge 

The  pauper  babe  its  breath, 
And  doom  a  wife  to  a  widow's  life, 

Before  her  partner's  death. 

My  only  claim  is  this, 

With  labor  stiff  and  stark, 
By  lawful  turn  my  living  to  earn 

Between  the  light  and  dark  ; 
My  daily  bread,  and  nightly  bed, 

My  bacon  and  drop  of  beer  — 
But  all  from  the  hand  that  holds  the  land, 

And  none  from  the  overseer  ! 

No  parish  money,  or  loaf, 

No  pauper  badges  for  me, 
A  son  of  the  soil,  by  right  of  toil 

Entitled  to  my  fee. 
No  alms  I  ask,  give  me  my  task  : 

Here  are  the  arm,  the  leg, 
The  strength,  the  sinews  of  a  Man, 

To  work,  and  not  to  beg. 

Still  one  of  Adam's  heirs, 

Though  doom'd  by  chance  of  birth 
To  dress  so  mean,  and  to  eat  the  lean 

Instead  of  the  fat  of  the  earth  ; 
To  make  such  humble  meals 

As  honest  labor  can, 
.  A  bone  and  a  crust,  with  a  grace  to  God, 

And  little  thanks  to  man  ! 

A  spade  !  a  rake  !  a  hoe  ! 

A  pickaxe,  or  a  bill ! 
A  hook  to  reap,  or  a  scythe  to  mow, 

A  flail,  or  what  ye  will  ; 
Whatever  the  tool  to  ply, 

Here  is  a  willing  drudge, 
With  muscle  and  limb,  and  woe  to  him 

Who  does  their  pay  begrudge  ! 

Who  every  weekly  score 

Docks  labor's  little  mite, 
Bestows  on  the  poor  at  the  temple-door, 

But  robb'd  them  over  night. 
The  very  shilling  he  hop'd  to  save, 

As  health  and  morals  fail, 
Shall  visit  me  in  the  New  Bastile, 

The  Spital  or  the  Gaol ! 


THE   BRIDGE   OF   SIGHS 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements  ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
•  Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly  ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her, 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutif  til  : 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family  — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful  ! 


HOOD-SIMMONS 


123 


Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver, 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  ; 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd  — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran,  — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it  —  think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 


Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest, 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast. 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour  ! 


STANZAS 

FAREWELL,  Life  !  my  senses  swim, 
And  the  world  is  growing  dim  ; 
Thronging  shadows  cloud  the  light, 
Like  the  advent  of  the  night ; 
Colder,  colder,  colder  still, 
Upward  steals  a  vapor  chill ; 
Strong  the  earthy  odor  grows  — 
I  smell  the  mould  above  the  rose  ! 

Welcome,  Life  !  the  Spirit  strives  ! 
Strength  returns  and  hope  revives  ; 
Cloudy  fears  and  shapes  forlorn 
Fly  like  shadows  at  the  morn  ; 
O'er  the  earth  there  comes  a  bloom  ; 
Sunny  light  for  sullen  gloom, 
Warm  perfume  for  vapor  cold  — 
I  smell  the  rose  above  the  mould  J 


STANZAS    TO   THE  MEMORY   OF 
THOMAS    HOOD 

TAKE  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth, 
This  joyous,  May-eyed  morrow, 


The  gentlest  child  that  ever  mirth 
Gave  to  be  rear'd  by  sorrow  ! 

'T  is   hard  —  while   rays   half   green, 

gold, 
Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning, 


half 


124 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


And  streams  their  diamond-mirrors  hold 
To  summer's  face  returning  — 

To  say  we  're  thankful  that  his  sleep 
Shall  never  more  be  lighter, 

In  whose  sweet-tongued  companionship 
Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter  ! 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 

His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love  —  each  hue 

And  grace  of  golden  nature  ; 
The  deeper  still  beneath  it  all 

Lurk'd  the  keen  jags  of  anguish  ; 
The  more  the  laurels  clasp'd  his  brow 

Their  poison  made  it  languish. 
Seem'd  it  that  like  the  nightingale 

Of  his  own  mournful  singing, 
The  tenderer  would  his  song  prevail 

While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

So  never  to  the  desert-worn 

Did  fount  bring  freshness  deeper, 
Than  that  his  placid  rest  this  morn 

Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 
That  rest  may  lap  his  weary  head 

Where  charnels  choke  the  city, 
Or  where,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bed 

The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty  ; 
But  near  or  far,  while  evening's  star 

Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting, 
Around  that  spot  admiring  thought 

Shall  hover,  unforgetting. 

And  if  this  sentient,  seething  world 

Is,  after  all,  ideal, 
Or  in  the  immaterial  furl'd 

Alone  resides  the  real, 
Freed  one  !   there  's  a  wail  for  thee  this 
hour 

Through  thy  lov'd  elves'  dominions  ; 
Hush'd  is  each  tiny  trumpet-flower, 

And  droopeth  Ariel's  pinions  ; 
Even  Puck,  dejected,  leaves  his  swing, 

To  plan,  with  fond  endeavor, 
What  pretty  buds  and  dews  shall  keep 

Thy  pillow  bright  for  ever. 

And  higher,  if  less  happy,  tribes, 
The  race  of  early  childhood, 


Shall  miss  thy  whims  of  frolic  wit, 

That  in  the  summer  wild-wood, 
Or  by  the  Christmas  hearth,  were  hail'd, 

And  hoarded  as  a  treasure 
Of  undecaying  merriment 

And  ever-changing  pleasure. 
Things  from  thy  lavish  humor  flung 

Profuse  as  scents,  are  flying 
This  kindling  morn,  when  blooms  are  born 

As  fast  as  blooms  are  dying. 

Sublimer  art  owned  thy  control  : 

The  minstrel's  mightiest  magic, 
With  sadness  to  subdue  the  soul, 

Or  thrill  it  with  the  tragic. 
Now  listening  Aram's  fearful  dream, 

We  see  beneath  the  willow 
That  dreadful  thing,  or  watch  him  steal, 

Guilt-lighted,  to  his  pillow. 
Now  with  thee  roaming  ancient  groves, 

We  watch  the  woodman  felling 
The  funeral  elm,  while  through  its  boughs 

The  ghostly  wind  comes  knelling. 

Dear  worshipper  of  Dian's  face 

In  solitary  places, 
Shalt  thou  no  more  steal,  as  of  yore, 

To  meet  her  white  embraces  ? 
Is  there  no  purple  in  the  rose 

Henceforward  to  thy  senses  ? 
For  thee  have  dawn  and  daylight's  close 

Lost  their  sweet  influences  ? 
No  !  —  by  the  mental  night  untam'd 

Thou  took'st  to  death's  dark  portal, 
The  joy  of  the  wide  universe 

Is  now  to  thee  immortal ! 

How  fierce  contrasts  the  city's  roar 

With  thy  new-conquer'd  quiet !  — 
This  stunning  hell  of  wheels  that  pour 

With  princes  to  their  riot  ! 
Loud  clash  the  crowds  —  the  busy  clouds 

With  thunder-noise  are  shaken, 
While  pale,  and  mute,  and  cold,  afar 

Thou  liest,  men-forsaken. 
Hot  life  reeks  on,  nor  recks  that  one  — 

The  playful,  human-hearted — 
Who  lent  its  clay  less  earthiness, 

Is  just  from  earth  departed. 


H.   MARTINEAU— BLANCH ARD 


125 


ON,   ON,    FOREVER 

BENEATH  this  starry  arch 

Nought  resteth  or  is  still  ; 
But  all  things  hold  their  inarch, 

As  if  by  one  great  will  : 
Moves  one,  move  all  :  hark  to  the  foot-fall ! 
On,  on,  forever  ! 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed  ; 
Will  ripens  into  deed  ; 
As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams, 
Day-thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams  ; 
And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong, 
As  echo  follows  song  : 
On,  on,  forever  1 


By  night,  like  stars  on  high, 

The  Hours  reveal  their  train  ; 
They  whisper  and  go  by  : 

I  never  watch  in  vain. 
Moves  one,  move   all :  hark  to  the  foot 

fall! 
On,  on,  forever  ! 

They  pass  the  cradle-head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed  ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave, 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
They  bear  through  every  clime 
The  harvests  of  all  time. 
On,  on,  forever  ! 


Eaman 

JSTELL   GWYNNE'S    LOOKING- 
GLASS 

GLASS  antique,  'twixt  thee  and  Nell 

Draw  we  here  a  parallel. 

She,  like  thee,  was  forced  to  bear 

All  reflections,  foul  or  fair. 

Thou  art  deep  and  bright  within, 
Depths  as  bright  belong'd  to  Gwynne  ; 
Thou  art  very  frail  as  well. 
Frail  as  flesh  is,  —  so  was  Nell. 

Thou,  her  glass,  art  silver-lin'd,, 

She  too,  had  a  silver  mind  : 

Thine  is  fresh  till  this  far  day, 

Hers  till  death  ne'er  wore  away  : 
Thou  dost  to  thy  surface  win 
Wandering  glances,  so  did  Gwynne  ; 
Eyes  on  thee  long  love  to  dwell, 
So  men's  eyes  would  do  on  Nell. 

Life-like  forms  in  thee  are  sought, 
Such  the  forms  the  actress  wrought ; 
Truth  unfailing  rests  in  you, 
Nell,  whate'er  she  was,  was  true. 
Clear  as  virtue,  dull  as  sin, 
Thou  art  oft,  as  oft  was  Gwynne  ; 
Breathe  on  thee,  and  drops  will  swell  : 
Bright  tears  dimui'd  the  eyes  of  Nell. 


Thine  's  a  frame  to  charm  the  sight, 

Fram'd  was  she  to  give  delight, 

Waxen  forms  here  truly  show 

Charles  above  and  Nell  below  ; 

But  between  them,  chin  with  chin, 
Stuart  stands  as  low  as  Gwynne,  — 
Paired,  yet  parted,  —  meant  to  tell 
Charles  was  opposite  to  Nell. 

Round  the  glass  wherein  her  face 

Smil'd  so  oft,  her  "  arms  "  we  trace  ; 

Thou,  her  mirror,  hast  the  pair. 

Lion  here,  and  leopard  there. 

She  had  part  in  these,  —  akin 
To  the  lion-heart  was  Gwynne  ; 
And  the  leopard's  beauty  fell 
With  its  spots  to  bounding  Nell. 

Oft  inspected,  ne'er  seen  through, 

Thou  art  firm,  if  brittle  too  ; 

So  her  will,  on  good  intent, 

Might  be  broken,  never  bent. 

What  the  glass  was,  when  therein 
Beam'd  the  face  of  glad  Nell  Gwynne, 
Was  that  face  by  beauty's  spell 
To  the  honest  soul  of  Nell. 


126 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


HIDDEN   JOYS 

PLEASURES  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures 

seem  : 

There  's  not  a  leaf  that  falls  upon  the  ground 
But  holds  some  joy,  of  silence,  or  of  sound, 
Some  sprite  begotten  of  a  summer  dream. 
The  very  meanest  things  are  made  supreme 
With  innate  ecstacy.     No  grain  of  sand 
But  moves  a  bright  and  million-peopled 

land, 
And  hath  its  Edens  and  its  Eves,  I  deem. 


For  Love,  though  blind  himself,  a  curious 

eye 
Hath    lent   me,  to   behold    the  hearts  of 

things, 
And  touch'd  mine  ear  with  power.     Thus, 

far  or  nigh, 
Minute    or    mighty,    flx'd    or    free    with 

wings, 
Delight   from    many    a    nameless    covert 

sly 
Peeps   sparkling,    and    in    tones    familiar 

sings. 


THE   NET-BRAIDERS 

WITHIN  a  low-thatch'd  hut,  built  in  a  lane 
Whose  narrow  pathway  tendeth  toward 

the  ocean, 

A  solitude  which,  save  of  some  rude  swain 
Or  fisherman,  doth  scarce  know  human 

motion  — 
Or  of  some  silent  poet,  to  the  main 

Straying,  to  offer  infinite  devotion 
To  God,  in  the  free  universe  —  there  dwelt 
Two  women  old,  to  whom  small  store  was 
dealt 

Of  the   world's   misnam'd   good :   mother 

and  child, 
Both  aged  and  mateless.     These  two  life 

sustain'd 

By  braiding  fishing-nets  ;  and  so  beguil'd 
Time  and  their  cares,  and  little  e'er  com- 

plain'd 

Of  Fate  or  Providence  :  resign'd  and  mild, 
Whilst  day  by  day,  for  years,  their  hour- 
glass rain'd 

Its  trickling  sand,  to  track  the  wing  of  time, 
They  toil'd  in  peace  ;  and  much  there  was 
sublime 

In  their  obscure  contentment  :  of  mankind 
They  little  knew,  or  reck'd  ;  but  for  their 

being 
They  bless'd  their  Maker,  with  a  simple 

mind  ; 

And   in   the   constant   gaze   of    his  all- 
seeing 

Eye,  to  his  poorest  creatures  never  blind, 
Deeming   they   dwelt,    they   bore   their 
sorrows  fleeing, 


Glad  still  to  live,  but  not  afraid  to  die, 
In  calm  expectance  of  Eternity. 

And  since  I  first  did  greet  those  braiders 

poor, 

If  ever  I  behold  fair  women's  cheeks 
Sin-pale    in    stately   mansions,  where    the 

door 
Is  shut  to  all  but  pride,  my  cleft  heart 

seeks 

For  refuge  in  my  thoughts,  which  then  ex- 
plore 
That  pathway  lone  near  which  the  wild 

sea  breaks, 

And  to  Imagination's  humble  eyes 
That  hut,  with  all  its  want,  is  Paradise  ! 

BIRTH   AND   DEATH 

METHINKS  the  soul  within  the  body  held 
Is  as  a  little  babe  within  the  womb, 
Which  flutters  in  its  antenatal  tomb, 
But  stirs  and  heaves  the  prison  where  't  is 

cell'd, 
And  struggles  in  strange  darkness,  undis- 

pell'd 
By  all  its  strivings  towards  the  breath  and 

bloom 

Of  that  aurorean  being  soon  to  come  — 
Strivings  of  feebleness,  by  nothing  quell'd  : 
And    even   as    birth    to    the   eufranchis'd 

child, 
Which  shows   to  its   sweet  senses  all  the 

vast 

Of  beauty  visible  and  audible, 
Is  death  unto  the  spirit  undefil'd  ; 
Setting  it  free  of  limit,  and  the  past, 
And  all  that  in  its  prison-house  befell. 


COOPER  — SARAH   F.   ADAMS 


127 


Cooper 


CHARTIST   SONG 

THE  time  shall  come  when  wrong  shall  end, 
When  peasant  to  peer  no  more  shall  bend  ; 
When  the  lordly  Few  shall  lose  their  sway, 
And  the  Many  no  more  their  frown  obey. 

Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  work  is 
done, 

Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 


The  time  shall  come  when  the  artisan 
Shall  homage  no  more  the  titled  man  ; 
When  the  moiling  men  who  delve  the  mine 
By  Mammon's  decree  no  more  shall  pine. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  work  is  done, 
Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 
won. 

The  time  shall   come  when  the  weavers' 

band 

Shall  hunger  no  more  in  their  fatherland  ; 
When  the  factory-child  can  sleep  till  day, 
And  smile  while  it  dreams  of  sport  and 

play. 


Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  work  is  done, 
Till  the  struggle  is  o'er,  and  the  Charter 
won. 

The  time  shall  come  when  Man  shall  hold 
His  brother  more  dear  than  sordid  gold  ; 
When  the  negro's  stain  his  freeborn  iniiid 
Shall  sever  no  more  from  human-kind. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  Justice  and  Love  hold  jubilee. 

The  time  shall  come  when  kingly  crown 
And  mitre  for  toys  of  the  past  are  shown  ; 
When  the  fierce  and  false  alike  shall  fall, 
And  mercy  and  truth  encircle  all. 

Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  Mercy  and  Truth  hold  jubilee  ! 

The  time  shall  come  when  earth  shall  be 

A  garden  of  joy,  from  sea  to  sea, 

When  the  slaughterous  sword  is  drawn  no 

more, 

And  goodness  exults  from  shore  to  shore. 
Toil,  brothers,  toil,  till  the  world  is  free, 
Till  goodness  shall  hold  high  jubilee  ! 


f  totoer 


HYMN 

HE  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower, 
Alike  they  're  needful  for  the  flower  : 
And  joys  and  tears  alike  are  sent 
To  give  the  soul  fit  nourishment. 
As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 
Father  !  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 

Can  loving  children  e'er  reprove 

With  murmurs  whom  they  trust  and  love  ? 

Creator  !  I  would  ever  be 

A  trusting,  loving  child  to  thee  : 

As  comes  to  me  or  cloud  or  sun, 

Father  !  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 

Oh,  ne'er  will  I  at  life  repine  : 
Enough  that  thou  hast  made  it  mine. 
When  falls  the  shadow  cold  of  death 
I  yet  will  sing,  with  parting  breath, 
As  comes  to  me  or  shade  or  sun, 
Father  !  thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! 


LOVE 

O  LOVE  !  thou  makest  all  things  even 

In  earth  or  heaven  ; 
Finding  thy  way  through  prison-bars 

Up  to  the  stars  ; 
Or,  true  to  the  Almighty  plan, 
That  out  of  dust  created  man, 
Thou  lookest  in  a  grave,  —  to  see 

Thine  immortality  ! 


NEARER   TO   THEE 

NEARER,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  ! 


128 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Though  like  the  wanderer, 
The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 
My  rest  a  stone  ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 
Steps  unto  heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  send'st  to  me 
In  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Then,  with  my  waking  thoughts 
Bright  with  thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 
Bethel  I  '11  raise  ; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 
Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 
Upward  I  fly, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  ! 

Barrett  2&rotomng 


THE   CRY   OF   THE   CHILDREN 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my 

brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against 

their  mothers, 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  mead- 
ows, 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The   young   fawns   are   playing   with    the 

shadows, 
The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward 

the  west  : 
But    the   young,   young  children,   O    my 

brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the 

others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the 

sorrow 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago  ; 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost, 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost : 
But    the   young,   young   children,    O    my 

brothers, 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 


Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their 

mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 

faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws   and 

presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy  ; 
"  Your  old  earth,"  they  say,  "  is  very  dreary, 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "  are  very 

weak  ; 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary  — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek  : 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the 

children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our 

bewildering, 
And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time  : 
Little  Alice  died  last  year,  her  grave  JL' 

shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take 

her  : 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close 

clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will 

wake  her, 
Crying,  '  Get  up,  little  Alice  !  it  is  day.' 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 


129 


If  you  listen  by   that  grave,  in  sun  and 

shower, 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never 

cries  : 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should 

not  know  her, 
For  the  srnile  has  time  for  growing  in  her 

eyes  : 
And   merry  go   her   moments,  lull'd   and 

still'd  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime. 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  chil- 
dren, 
"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 

Alas,  alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have  : 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away  from 

breaking, 

With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from 

the  city, 
Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes 

do  ; 

Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow-cow- 
slips pretty, 
Laugh   aloud,  to   feel   your   fingers   let 

them  through  ! 
But  they  answer,   "Are  your  cowslips  of 

the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the   dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

"  For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap  ; 
If  we  car'd  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping, 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go  ; 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  droop- 
ing. 
The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as 

snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring 

Through  the  coal-dark,  underground, 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"  For  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turn- 
ing ; 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with  pulses 

burning, 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places  : 


Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and 

reeling, 
Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown  the 

wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the 

ceiling, 
All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with 

all. 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  O  ye  wheels,'   (breaking   out   in   a  mad 

moaning) 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  ! ' " 

Ay,  be  silent  !     Let  them  hear  each  other 

breathing 

For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a 

fresh  wreathing 
Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or  reveals  : 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against 

the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O 

wheels  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark  ; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  call- 
ing sunward, 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my 

brothers, 

To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray  ; 
So  the  blessed  One  who  blesseth  all  the 

others, 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "  Who  is  God  that  He  should 

hear  us, 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is 

stirr'd  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures 

near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a 

word. 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their 

resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door  : 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round 

Him, 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"  Two  words,  indeed,  of   praying  we   re^ 

member, 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 


130 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


*  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  cham- 

ber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We   know   no   other   words   except   '  Our 

Father,' 
And  we  think   that,  in  some   pause   of 

angels'  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet 

to  gather, 
And  hold  both  within  His   right   hand 

which  is  strong. 
'  Our  Father  !  '     If  He  heard  us,  He  would 

surely 

(For  they  call  Him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very 

purely, 
'  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"  But,    no  !  "   say   the    children,    weeping 

faster, 

"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone  : 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !  "  say  the  children,  —  "  up  in  heaven, 
Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all 

we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us  ;  grief  has  made  us  unbe- 

lieving : 
We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made 

us  blind." 
Do  you  hear^he  children  weeping  and  dis- 

proving, 

O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's 

loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run  ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the 


T 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its 

wisdom  ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its 

calm  ; 

Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom, 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the 

palm  : 

Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 
The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot 

reap,  — 
A.re  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heav- 

enly. 
Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 


They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken 

faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see. 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high 

places, 

With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
"  How  long,"  they  say,  "  how  long,  O  cruel 

nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  3 

child's  heart,  — 

Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its   palpita- 
tion, 
And  tread  onward  tc  your  throne  amid 

the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold-heaper, 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses 

deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath." 


MY   HEART   AND    I 

ENOUGH  !  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  sit  beside  the  headstone  thus, 
And  wish  that  name  were  carv'd  for  us. 

The  moss  reprints  more  tenderly 

The  hard  types  of  the  mason's  knife, 
As  Heaven's  sweet  life  renews  earth's  life 

With  which  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

You  see  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  dealt  with  books,  we  trusted  men, 
And  in  our  own  blood  drench'd  the  pen, 

As  if  such  colors  could  not  fly. 

We  walk'd  too  straight  for  fortune's  end, 
We  lov'd  too  true  to  keep  a  friend  ; 

At  last  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

How  tired  we  feel,  my  heart  and  I  ! 

We  seem  of  no  use  in  the  world  ; 

Our  fancies  hang  gray  and  uncurl'd 
About  men's  eyes  indifferently  ; 

Our  voice  which  thrill'd  you  so,  will  let 

You  sleep  ;  our  tears  are  only  wet : 
What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I ! 

It  was  not  thus  in  that  old  time 

When  Ralph  sat  with  me  'neath  the  lime 
To  watch  the  sunset  from  the  sky. 

"  Dear  love,  you  're  looking  tired,"   he 
said  : 

I,  smiling  at  him,  shook  my  head. 
'T  is  now  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I ! 

Though  now  none  takes  me  on  his  arm 
To  fold  me  close  and  kiss  me  warm 

Till  each  quick  breath  end  in  a  sigh 
Of  happy  languor.     Now,  alone, 
We  lean  upon  this  graveyard  stone, 

Uncheer'd,  unkiss'd,  my  heart  and  I. 

Tired  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To  tempt  us,  crusted  with  loose  gems 

Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?     Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  child,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 

We  feel  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

Yet  who  complains  ?     My  heart  and  I  ? 
In  this  abundant  earth  no  doubt 
Is  little  room  for  things  worn  out : 

Disdain  them,  break  them,  throw  them  by  ! 
And  if  before  the  days  grew  rough 
We  once  were  lov'd,  us'd,  —  well  enough, 

I  think,  we  've  far'd,  my  heart  and  I. 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTU- 
GUESE 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 
Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wish'd- 

f or  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 
To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 
And,  as  I  mus'd  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was 

'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the 

hair  ; 
And   a   voice    said    in   mastery,    while    I 

strove,  — 
"  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  !  "  —  "  Death," 

I  said.     But,  there, 
The  silver  answer  rang  —  "  Not  Death,  but 

Love." 

IV 

THOU  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor, 
Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems  !  where 
The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from  the  care 
Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for  more. 


And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch  too  poor 
For  hand  of  thine  ?  and  canst  thou  think 

and  bear 

To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  my  door  ? 
Look  up  and  see  the  casement  broken  in, 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the  roof  2 
My  cricket  chirps  against  thy  mandolin. 
Hush,  call  no  echo  up  in  further  proof 
Of  desolation  !  there  's  a  voice  within 
That  weeps  ...  as  thou  must  sing  .  .  . 

alone,  aloof. 


I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 
As  once  Electra  her  sepulchral  urn, 
And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  overturn 
The  ashes  at  thy  feet.     Behold  and  see 
What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in  me, 
And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly  burn 
Through  the  ashen  grayness.     If  thy  foot 

in  scorn 

Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness  utterly, 
It  might  be  well  perhaps.  But  if  instead 
Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to  blow 
The  gray  dust  up,  .  .  .  those  laurels  on 

thine  head, 

O  my  Beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 
That  none  of  all  the  fires  shall  scorch  and 

shred 
The  hair  beneath.     Stand  further  off  then  ! 


g° 


VI 


Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  fore- 
bore  — 
Thy   touch  upon  the  palm.      The  widest 

land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in 

mine 

With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And   what   I  dream  include  thee,  as  the 

wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  1 

sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears   that   name  of 

thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


132 


POETS   OF   THE   NEW   DAY 


IX 

CAN  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ? 
To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 
As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing  years 
Re-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 
Through  those  infrequent  smiles  which  fail 

to  live 

For  all  thy  adjurations  ?     O  my  fears, 
Tha,t  this  can  scarce  be  right  !     We  are  not 

peers 

So  to  be  lovers  ;  and  I  own,  and  grieve, 
That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are,  must 
Be  counted  with  the  ungenerous.    Out,  alas  ! 
I  will  not  soil  thy  purple  with  my  dust, 
Nor  breathe  my  poison  on  thy  Venice-glass, 
Nor  give  thee  any  love  —  which  were  unjust. 
Beloved,  I  only  love  thee  !  let  it  pass. 

XVIII 

I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 
To  a  man,  Dearest,  except  this  to  thee, 
Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thoughtfully 
I   ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length  and 

say 

"  Take  it."     My  day  of  youth  went  yester- 
day ; 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's  glee, 
Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle-tree, 
As  girls  do,  any  more  :  it  only  may 
Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the  mark  of 

tears, 
Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that  hangs 

aside 
Through   sorrow's   trick.      I   thought   the 

funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first,  but  Love  is  justi- 
fied,— 
Take  it  thou,  —  finding  pure,  from  all  those 

years, 
The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when  she  died. 

XX 

BELOVED,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think 
That  thou  wast  in  the  world  a  year  ago, 
What  time  I  sat  alone  here  in  the  snow 
And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  silence 

sink 

No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link  by  link, 
Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that  so 
They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 
Struck  by  thy  possible  hand,  —  why,  thus  I 

drink 


Of  life's  great  cup  of  wonder  !    Wonderful, 
Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or  night     . 
With  personal  act  or  speech,  —  nor  ever 

cull 
Some  prescience  of  thee  with  the  blossoms 

white 
Thou   sawest   growing !      Atheists   are   as 

dull, 
Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out  of 

sight. 

XXII 

WHEN  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and 

strong, 
Face   to    face,   silent,   drawing   nigh    and 

nigher, 

Until  the  lengthening  wings  break  into  fire 
At  either  curved  point,  —  what  bitter  wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should  not 

long 
Be  here  contented  ?    Think  !    In  mounting 

higher, 

The  angels  would  press  on  us  and  aspire 
To  drop  some  golden  orb  of  perfect  song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.     Let  us  stay 
Rather  on  earth,  Beloved,  —  where  the  unfit 
Contrarious  moods  of  men  recoil  away 
And  isolate  pure  spirits,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a  day, 
With  darkness  and  the  death-hour  rounding 

it. 

XXIII 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?     If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing  mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun  for  thee  more  coldly 

shine 
Because  of  grave-damps  falling  round  my 

head? 

I  marvelled,  my  Beloved,  when  I  read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.     I  am  thine  — 
But  ...  so  much  to  thee  ?     Can  I  pour 

thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble  ?     Then  my  soul, 

instead 
Of  dreams  of  death,  resumes  life's  lower 

range. 
Then,  love  me,  Love  !  look  on  me  —  breathe 

on  me  ! 

As  brighter  ladies  do  not  count  it  strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  and  degree, 
I  yield   the  grave   for  thy  sake,  and   ex- 
change 
My  near  sweet  view  of  heaven,  for  earth 

with  thee  ! 


'33 


XXVI 

I  LIV'D  with  visions  for  my  company 
Instead  of  men  and  women,  years  ago, 
And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor  thought 

to  know 

A  sweeter  music  than  they  play'd  to  me. 
But  soon  their  trailing  purple  was  not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust,  their  lutes  did  silent 

grow, 

And  I  myself  grew  faint  and  blind  below 
Their  vanishing  eyes.  Then  THOU  didst 

come  —  to  be, 
Beloved,  what  they  seein'd.     Their  shining 

fronts, 
Their  songs,  their  splendors,   (better,  yet 

the  same, 

As  river-water  hallow'd  into  fonts) 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  overcame 
My  soul  with  satisfaction  of  all  wants  : 
Because  God's  gift  puts  man's  best  dreams 

to  shame. 

XXXV 

IF  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing  and  the  eommcn 

kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it 

strange, 

When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors,  another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which 

is 
Fill'd  by  dead   eyes  too  tender  to   know 

change 
That 's  hardest  ?     If  to  conquer  love,  has 

tried, 
To  conquer  grief,  tries  more,  as  all  things 

prove, 

For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  griev'd  so  I  am  hard  to  love. 
Yet  love  me  —  wilt  thou  ?  Open  thine 

heart  wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

XXXVIII 

FIRST  time  he  kiss'd  me,  he  but  only  kiss'd 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write  ; 
And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and 

white, 
Slow   to   world-greetings,    quick   with    its 

"Oh,  list," 


When  the  angels  speak.  A  ring  of  ame- 
thyst 

I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 

Than  that  first  kiss.  The  second  pass'd  in 
height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half 
miss'd, 

Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O  beyond  meed  ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's 
own  crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect,  purple  state  ;  since  when,  in- 
deed, 

I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  My  love,  my 
own." 

XXXIX 

BECAUSE  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st 

the  grace 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask  of 

me, 
(Against    which,    years    have    beat     thus 

blanchingly 
With  their   rains,)  and   behold  my  soul's 

true  face, 

The  dim  and  weary  witness  of  life's  race,  — 
Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love  to  see, 
Through  that  same  soul's  distracting 

lethargy, 

The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In   the   new   Heavens,  —  because   nor   sin 

nor  woe, 

Nor  God's  infliction,  nor  death's  neighbor- 
hood, 

Nor  all  which  others  viewing,  turn  to  go, 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all,  self- 

view'd,  — 
Nothing  repels  thee,  .  .  .   Dearest,  teach 

me  so 
To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost,  good  ! 

XLI 

I  THANK  all  who  have  lov'd  me  ir  their 

hearts, 
With  thanks  and  love  from  mine.     Deep 

thanks  to  all 

Who  paus'd  a  little  near  the  prison-wall 
To  hear  my  music  in  its  louder  parts 
Ere  they  went  onward,  each   one  to   the 

mart's 

Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and  fall 
When  the  sob  took  it,  thy  divinest  Art's 


134 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at  thy 
foot 

To  hearken  what  I  said  between  my 
tears,  .  .  . 

Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  !  Oh,  to 
shoot 

My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future  years, 

That  they  should  lend  it  utterance,  and 
salute 

Love  that  endures,  from  Life  that  disap- 
pears ! 

XLIII 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the 

ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and 

height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of 

sight 

For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right  ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's 

faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seem'd  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee  with  the 

breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  !  —  and,  if  God 

choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 


A   MUSICAL   INSTRUMENT 

WHAT  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river  : 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  tiirbidly  flow'd  the  river  ; 
And  hack'd  and  hew'd  as   a   great  god 
can, 


With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man. 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notch'd  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laugh'd  the  great  god 

Pan, 

(Laugh'd  while  he  sat  by  the  river,) 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the 

reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  reviv'd,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 

Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  : 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain,  — 

For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


FROM  "CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS" 

JULIET   OF   NATIONS 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 
'Neath    Casa    Guidi    windows,    by    the 

church, 

0  bella  liberta,  0  bella  !  —  stringing 
The  same  words  still  on  notes  he  went  in 

search 

So  high  for,  you  concluded  the  upspringing 

Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from  perch 

Must  leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  tremble 

green, 

And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat, 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  serene 
'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florence 

street  : 

A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 
By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his  feet, 
And  still  0  bella  liberta  he  sang. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 


135 


Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumer- 

ous 

Sweet  songs  which   still  for   Italy  out- 
rang 
From  older  singers'  lips  who  sang  not  thus 

Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 
Fast  sheath'd  in  music,  touch'd  the  heart 

of  us 

So  finely  that  the  pity  scarcely  pain'd. 
I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 
Bewailers  for  their  Italy  enchain'd, 
And  how  they  call'd  her  childless  among 

mothers, 
Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  re- 

frain'd 

Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 
Might   a   sham'd    sister's,  — "  Had    she 

been  less  fair 
She  were  less  wretched  ;  "  —  how,  evoking 

so 

From  congregated  wrong  and  heap'd  de- 
spair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow, 

Harrow'd  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair, 
Some  personating  Image  wherein  woe 
Was  wrapp'd  in  beauty  from  offending 

much, 
They  call'd  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 

Or   laid   it   corpse-like    on    a    bier   for 

such, 

Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  Italy 
Those   cadenced   tears   which  burn   not 

where  they  touch,  — 
"  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 
And   was  the  violet    that   crown'd   thy 

head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made  it 

rough, 
It  slipp'd  down  and  across  thine  eyelids 

dead, 
O   sweet,   fair   Juliet  ? "     Of  such   songs 

enough, 
Too  many  of  such  complaints  .'  behold, 

instead, 
Void  at  Verona,  Juliet's  marble  trough  : 

As  void  as  that  is,  are  all  images 
Men  set  between  themselves  and  actual 

wrong, 
To  catch  the  weight  of  pity,  meet  the 

stress 
Of  conscience,  —  since  't  is  easier  to  gaze 

long 

On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Thau  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crush'd 
by  strong. 


SURSUM   CORDA 

The  sun  strikes,  through  the  windows,  up 

the  floor  ; 

Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Florentine, 
Not  two  years  old,  and  let  me  see  thee 

more  ! 

It  grows  along  thy  amber  curls,  to  shine 
Brighter    than    elsewhere.     Now,    loot 

straight  before, 
And  fix  thy  brave  blue   English  eyes   on 

mine, 

And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  fu- 
ture so, 
With  unabash'd  and  unabated  gaze, 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  angels 

know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost.    Down 

God's  ways 
With  just   alighted   feet,    between   the 

snow 
And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb  may 

graze, 
Thou  hast  no  fear,  my  lamb,  about  the 

road, 
Albeit  in  our  vain-glory  we  assume 

That,  less  than  we  have,  thou  hast  learnt 

of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet !  —  thou, 

to  whom 
The  earliest  world-day  light  that  ever 

flow'd, 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  chanced  to 

come  ! 
Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of  thy 

hair. 

And  be  God's  witness  that  the  elemental 
New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  every-; 

where 

To  cleanse  the  water-courses,  and.  prevent  all 
Concrete  obstructions  which  infest   the 

air  ! 

That  earth 's  alive,  and  gentle  or  ungentle 
Motions      within      her,      signify      but 

growth  !  — 

The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the  labor- 
ing moles. 
Howe'er  the  uneasy  world  is  vex'd  and 

wroth, 

Young  children,  lifted  high  on  parent  souls, 
Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon  the 

mouth, 

And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls  ; 
(WHO  said  we  should  be  better  if  like 
these  ?) 


136 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


But  we  sit  murmuring  for  the  future  though 

Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees, 
Convicting  us  of  folly.     Let  us  go  — 

We  will  trust  God.     The  blank  interstices 
Men  take  for  ruins,  He  will  build  into 

With  pillar'd  marbles  rare,  or  knit  across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane 's  com- 
plete. 

This  world  has  no  perdition,  if  some  loss. 

Such  cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smiling,  Sweet! 
The  self-same  cherub-faces  which  emboss 
The  Vail,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy-seat. 

A   COURT   LADY 

HER  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes 

with  purple  were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a  red  and 

restless  spark. 

Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name 

and  in  race  ; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in  the 

face. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth   more  true   as 

woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder 

in  manners  and  life. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said 

to  her  maidens,  "  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at 

the  court  of  the  king. 

"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond,  lucid, 

clear  of  the  inote, 
•  Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp 

me  the  small  at  the  throat. 

"  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  dia- 
monds to  fasten  the  sleeves, 

Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder 
of  snow  from  the  eaves." 

Gorgeous  she  enter'd  the  sunlight  which 
gather'd  her  up  in  a  flame, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to 
the  hospital  came. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing  from 

end  to  end, 
*Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each 

is  the  place  of  a  friend." 


Up  she  pass'd  through  the  wards,  and 
stood  at  a  young  man's  bed  : 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the 
droop  of  his  head. 

"  Art     thou    a    Lombard,    my    brother  ? 

Happy  art  thou,"  she  cried, 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him  :  he  dream'd 

in  her  face  and  died. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still 

to  a  second  : 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by 

dungeons  were  reckon'd. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in 

his  life  were  sorer. 
"  Art   thou   a   Romagnole  ?  "       Her   eyes 

drove  lightnings  before  her 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  join'd  to  double 

and  tighten  the  cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,  —  free  by 

the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using 

the  life  overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present,  (too  new,) 

in  glooms  of  the  past." 

Down  she  stepp'd  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a 

face  like  a  girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  —  a  deep 

black  hole  in  the  curls. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother  ?  and 
seest  thou,  dreaming  in  pain, 

Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching 
the  List  of  the  slain  ?  " 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touch'd  his 
cheeks  with  her  hands  : 

"  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee,  al- 
though she  should  weep  as  she 
stands." 

On  she  pass'd    to  a  Frenchman,  his  arn? 

carried  off  by  a  ball  : 
Kneeling,  .  .  .  "  O  more  than  my  brother  ! 

how  shall  I  thank  thee  for  all  ? 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought 

for  his  land  and  line, 
But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate 

of  a  wrong  not  thine. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to 

be  dispossess'd  : 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations,  who 

dare  to  be  strong  for  the  rest !  " 

Ever  she  pass'd  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a 

couch  where  pin'd 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a 

hope  out  of  mind. 

Long  she  stood  and  gaz'd,  and  twice  she 

tried  at  the  name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that 

falter'd  and  came. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?  —  she  turn'd  as  in 

passion  and  loss, 
And  stoop'd  to  his  forehead  and  kiss'd  it, 

as  if  she  were  kissing  the  cross. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of   heart  she  mov'd 

on  then  to  another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "  And  dost 

thou  suffer,  my  brother  ?  " 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  :  —  "  Out  of  the 
Piedmont  lion 

Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweet- 
est to  live  or  to  die  on." 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands,  —  "  Well, 

oh,  well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not 

be  noble  alone." 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose,  to 

her  feet  with  a  spring,  — 
M  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this  is  the 

Court  of  the  King." 


MOTHER   AND   POET 

TURIN,  AFTER   NEWS   FROM   GAETA,    l86l 

DEAD  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in 

the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 

sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit  at 

the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy 

free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  I 


Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men 

said  ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agoniz'd  here, 
—  The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on 

in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at  ?     Oh, 

vain ! 
What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her 

breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile 

at  the  pain  ? 
Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong 

as  you  press'd, 
And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art 's  for  a  woman  ?     To  hold  on  her 

knees 
Both  darlings  ;  to   feel  all  their  arms 

round  her  throat, 

Cling,  strangle  a  little,  to  sew  by  degrees 
And  'broider  the  long-clothes  and  neat 

little  coat  ; 
•     To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To   teach  them  ...  It  stings  there  !     / 

made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.     I  taught 

them,  no  doubt, 
That  a  country  's  a  thing  men  should  die 

for  at  need. 

7  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes    flash'd  .  .  .  O  my 

beautiful  eyes  !  .  .  . 
I  exulted  ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the 

wheels 
Of  the  guns,   and  denied  not.     But  then 

the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !     Then  ona 

weeps,  then  one  kneels  ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels  f 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters 

moil'd 
With    my    kisses,  —  of    camp-life    and 

glory,  and  how 
They  both  lov'd  me  ;    and,   soon  coming 

home  to  be  spoil'd, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from 

my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 


138 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Then   was    triumph   at    Turin :    "  Ancona 

was  free  ! " 
And  someone  came  out  of  the  cheers  in 

the  street, 
With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something 

to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  !    I  fell  down  at  his 

feet, 
While  they  cheer'd  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it  ;  friends  sooth'd  me  ;   my  grief 

look'd  sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  re- 

main'd 
To  be  leant  on  and  walk'd  with,  recalling 

the  time 
When   the   first   grew   immortal,   while 

both  of  us  strain'd 
To  the  height  he  had  gain'd. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more 

strong, 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  "  I  was  not  to 

faint,  — 
One  lov'd  me  for  two  —  would  be  with  me 

ere  long  : 
And   Viva  I'  Italia!  —  he  died  for,  our 

saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "he  was  safe,  and 

aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turn'd  off  the  balls,  — 

was  impress'd 
It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I 

could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispos- 

sess'd, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph- 
line, 
Swept    smoothly  the   next   news    from 

Gaeta  :  —  Shot. 
Tell  his  mother.     Ah,  ah,  "  his,"  "  their  " 

mother,  —  not  "  mine," 
No  voice  says  "  My  mother "  again  to 

me.     What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with 

Heaven, 

They  drop  earth's   affections,   conceive 
not  of  woe  ? 


I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately 

forgiven 
Through  THAT  Love  and  Sorrow  which 

reconcil'd  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look  dst 

through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother  !  consider,  1 

pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate5 

mark, 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with 

eyes  turn'd  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  ! 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that 's  out  of  nature. 

We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must 

always  keep  one. 

'T  were  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall ; 
And,  when  Italy  's  made,  for  what  end  is 

it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah,   ah,  ah !    when   Gaeta 's   taken,  what 

then? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more 

at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out 

of  men  ? 

When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  re- 
tort 
Have  cut  the  game  short  ? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new 

jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its 

white,  green,  and  red, 

When  you  have  your  country  from  moun- 
tain to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on 

his  head, 
(And  /  have  my  Dead)  — 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring 

your  bells  low, 
And    burn  your    lights   faintly  !      My 

country  is  there, 
Above  the  star  prick'd  by  the  last  peak  of 

snow  : 
My  Italy  's  THERE,  with  my  brave  civic 

Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair  t 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING 


'39 


Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children 

in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in 

self-scorn  ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring 

us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this  —  and  we  sit  on 

forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the 

east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the 

sea, 

Both  !  both  my  boys  !  If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

[This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poet  and  patriot, 
whose  sons  were  killed  at  Ancona  and  Gaeta.] 


MOTHERLESS 

I  WRITE.     My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  see- 
ing me 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  years  old  ;  my 

life, 
A  poor  spark  snatch'd  up  from  a  failing 

lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.     She  was  weak 

and  frail ; 

She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving  life  — 
The  mother's  rapture  slew  her.     If  her  kiss 
Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  my  lips, 
It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  breath, 
And  reconcil'd  and  fraterniz'd  my  soul 
With  the  new  order.     As  it  was,  indeed, 
I  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world, 
And  still  went  seeking,  like  a  bleating  lamb 
Left  out  at  night,  in  shutting  up  the  fold,  — 
As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 
Grown  chill  through  something  being  away, 

though  what 

It  knows  not.     I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  my  father  sadder,  and  myself 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.     Women  know 
The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be  just,) 
They  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes, 
And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no 

sense, 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words  ; 


Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon, 
Although  such  trifles  :  children  learn  by 

such, 

Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play, 
And  get  not  over-early  solemniz'd,  — 
But  seeing,  as  in  a  rose-bush,  Love  's  Divine, 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not,  —  not  a  single 

bloom,  — 

Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love. 
Such  good  do  mothers.      Fathers  love  as 

well 
—  Mine    did,    I    know,  —  but    still    with 

heavier  brains, 

And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 
And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishly  ; 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be  miss'd. 

BOOKS 

Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green, 
And  liv'd  my  life,  and  thought  my  thoughts, 

and  pray'd 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar  ;   read  my 

books, 

Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 
To  do  me  good.     Mark,  there.     We  get  no 

good 

By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book, 
And  calculating  profits  ...  so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.     It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a  book's  pro- 
found, 
Impassion'd    for  its   beauty  and    salt  of 

truth  — • 

'T  is  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a 
book. 

THE   POETS 

I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room 
Pil'd  high  with  cases  in  my  father's  name  \ 
Pil'd  high,  pack'd  large,  —  where,  creeping 

in  and  out 

Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 
Like  some  small  nimble  mouse  between  the 

ribs 

Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap, 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  joy, 
The  first  book  first.     And  how  I  felt  it 

beat 

Under  my  pillow,  in  the  morning's  dark, 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read  ! 
My  books  ! 


140 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


At  last,  because  the  time  was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 

Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal  fires 
Have  reach'd  and  prick'd  her  heart,  and, 

throwing  flat 
The   marts  and    temples,   the    triumphal 

gates 

And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 
To  elemental  freedom  —  thus,  my  soul, 
At  poetry's  divine  first  finger  touch, 
Let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up  surpris'd, 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 

What 's  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 
You  write  so  of  the  poets,  and  not  laugh  ? 
Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after  dark, 
Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  soothsayers  in  a  tea-cup? 

I  write  so 

Of  the  only  truth-tellers,  now  left  to  God,  — 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 
Oppos'd  to  relative,  comparative, 
And  temporal  truths  ;  the  only  holders  by 
His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional  gray 

glooms  ; 

The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind, 
From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel  wall, 
To  find  man's  veritable  stature  out, 
Erect,  sublime,  —  the  measure  of  a  man, 
And  that 's  the  measure  of  an  angel,  says 
The  apostle. 

THE  FERMENT   OF   NE.W   WINE 

And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a  flush 
Of  individual  life,  I  pour'd  myself 
Along  the  veins  of  others,  and  achiev'd 
Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  live  verse, 
And  made  the  living  answer  for  the  dead, 
Profaning  nature.  "  Touch  not,  do  not  taste, 
Nor  handle,"  —  we're  too  legal,  who  write 

young : 
We  beat  the  phormiux  till  we  hurt  our 

thumbs, 

As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint  ; 
We  call  the  Muse  .  .  .  "O  Muse, benignant 

Muse  !  "  — 

As  if  we  had  seen  her  purple-braided  head 
With  the  eyes  in  it  start  between  the 

boughs 

As  often  as  a  stag's.  What  make-believe, 
With  so  much  earnest  !  what  effete  results, 
From  virile  efforts  !  what  cold  wire-drawn 

odes, 


From   such  white  heats  !   .bucolics,  where 

the  cows 
Would  scare  the  writer  if  they  splash'd  the 

mud 

In  lashing  off  the  flies,  —  didactics,  driven 
Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master  said  ; 
And  counterfeiting  epics,  shrill  with  trumps 
A  babe  might  blow  between  two  straining 

cheeks 

Of  bubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother  laugh  : 
And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love, 
Like  cast-off  nosegays  pick'd  up  on    the 

road, 
The  worse  for  being  warm  :  all  these  things, 

writ 

On  happy  mornings,  with  a  morning  heart, 
That  leaps  for  love,  is  active  for  resolve, 
Weak  for  art  only.     Oft,  the  ancient  forms 
Will  thrill,  indeed,  in  carrying  the  young 

blood. 
The   wine-skins,   now   and    then,   a    little 

warp'd, 
Will  crack  even,  as  the  new  wine  gurgles 

in. 
Spare  the  old  bottles  !  —  spill  not  the  new 


By  Keats's  soul,  the  man  who  never  stepp'd 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man, 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self, 
Enspher'd  himself  in  twenty  perfect  years 
And  died,  not  young,  —  (the  life  of  a  long 

life, 

Distill'd  to  a  mere  drop,  falling  like  a  tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make  it 

burn  . 

For  ever  ;)  by  that  strong  excepted  soul, 
I  count  it  strange,  and  hard  to  understand, 
That  nearly  all  young  poets  should  write 

old ; 

That  Pope  was  sexagenarian  at  sixteen, 
And  beardless  Byron  academical, 
And  so  with  others.     It  may  be,  perhaps, 
Such  have  not  settled  long  and  deep  enough 
In  trance,  to  attain  to  clairvoyance,  —  and 

still 

The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision,  spoils, 
And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again 

In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx, 
The  melancholy  desert  must  sweep  round, 
Behind  you,  as  before.  — 

For  me,  I  wrote 
False  poems,  like  the   rest,  and   thought 

them  true, 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING 


141 


Because  myself  was  true  in  writing  them. 
I,  perad venture,  have  writ  true  ones  since 
With  less  complacence. 

ENGLAND 

Whoever  lives  true  life,  will  love  true  love. 
I  learn'd  to  love  that  England.     Very  oft, 
Before  the  day  was  born,  or  otherwise 
Through  secret  windings  of  the  afternoons, 
I  threw  my  hunters  off  and  plunged  myself 
Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a  hunted  stag 
Will  take  the  waters,  shivering  with  the 

fear 
And  passion  of  the  course.     And  when,  at 

last 
Escap'd,  —  so  many  a  green  slope  built  on 

slope 

Betwixt  me  and  the  enemy's  house  behind, 
I  dar'd  to  rest,  or  wander,  —  like  a  rest 
Made  sweeter  for  the  step  upon  the  grass,  — 
And  view  the  ground's  most  gentle  dimple- 

ment, 

(As  if  God's  finger  touch'd  but  did  not  press 
In  making  England  !)  such  an  up  and  down 
Of  verdure,  —  nothing  too  much  up  or  down, 
A  ripple  of  land  ;  such  little  hills,  the  sky 
Can  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields 

climb  ; 

Such  nooks  of  valleys,  lin'd  with  orchises, 
Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams  ; 
And  open  pastures,  where  you  scarcely  tell 
White  daisies  from  white  dew,  —  at  inter- 
vals 

The  mythic  oaks  and  elm-trees  standing-out 
Self-pois'd  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade,  — 
I  thought  my  father's  land  was  worthy  too 
Of  being  my  Shakespeare's.  .  .  . 
.  .   .  Breaking  into  voluble  ecstacy, 
I  flatter'd  all  the  beauteous  country  round, 
As  poets  use  .  .  .  the  skies,  the  clouds,  the 

fields, 

The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The    primroses    run     down    to,    carrying 

gold,  — 
The  tangled  hedgerows,   where  the   cows 

push  out 
Impatient    horns    and    tolerant    churning 

mouths 
'Twixt  dripping  ash-boughs,  —  hedgerows 

all  alive 

With  birds  and  gnats  and  large  white  but- 
terflies 
Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  sought 

life 


And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind, — 
Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver  mist, 
Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills, 
And  cattle  grazing  in  the  water'd  vales, 
And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the 

woods, 

And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere, 
Coufus'd  with  smell  of  orchards.    "  See,"  I 

said, 

"  And  see  !  is  God  not  with  us  on  the  earth  ? 
And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we 

do? 
Who  says  there  's  nothing  for  the  poor  and 

vile 

Save  poverty  and  wickedness  ?  behold  !  " 
And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I  leap'd, 
And  clapp'd  my  hands,  and  call'd  all  very 

fair. 

"  BY   SOLITARY   FIRES  " 

O  my  God,  my  God, 
O  supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return 
For  all  the  cosmic  wonder  of  Thy  work, 
Demandest  of  us  just  a  word  ...  a  name, 
"  My   Father  !  "  —  thou   hast    knowledge, 

only  thou, 

How  dreary  't  is  for  women  to  sit  still 
On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 
Too  far  !  ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of 

love, 

Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood, 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  with- 
out 

Being  present  also  in  the  unkiss'd  lips, 
And  eyes  undried  because  there  's  none  to 

ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone, 
And   think,   for   comfort,  how,  that   very 

night, 

Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face 
With  sweet  half-listenings  for  each  other's 

breath, 

Are  reading  haply  from  some  page  of  ours, 
To  pause  with  a  thrill,  as  if  their  cheeks 

had  touch'd, 

When  such  a  stanza,  level  to  their  mood, 
Seems  floating  their  own  thoughts  out  — 

"  So  I  feel 
For  thee,"  —  "  And  I,  for  thee  :   this  poet 

knows 
What   everlasting   love   is!"  —  how,  that 

night 


142 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


A  father  issuing  from  the  misty  roads 
Upon   the   luminous   round   of   lamp   and 

hearth 

And  happy  children,  having  caught  up  first 
The  youngest   there  until  it   shrunk   and 

shriek'd 
To   feel   the   cold   chin   prick   its   dimple 

through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw  i' 

the  lap 
Of  the  eldest  (who  has  learn'd  to  drop  her 

lids 
To  hide  some  sweetness  newer  than  last 

year's) 
Our  book  and  cry,  ..."  Ah  you,  you  care 

for  rhymes  ; 

So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under  trees, 
When  April  comes  to  let  you  !     I  've  been 

told 

They  are  not  idle  as  so  many  are, 
But  set    hearts  beating  pure   as  well  as 

fast  : 
It 's  yours,  the  book  ;  I  '11  write  your  name 

in  it,  — 

That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however  lost 
In  poet's  lore  and  charming  reverie, 
The  thought  of  how  your  father  thought  of 

you 
In  riding  from  the  town." 

To  have  our  books 

Apprais'd  by  love,  associated  with  love, 
While  we  sit  loveless  !  is  it  hard,  you  think  ? 
At  least 't  is  mournful.   Fame,  indeed,  't  was 

said, 

Means  simply  love.     It  was  a  man  said  that. 
And  then  there  's  love  and  love  :  the  love 

of  all 

(To  risk,  in  turn,  a  woman's  paradox,) 
Is  but  a  small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 
You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a  heritage  of  many  corn-fields  :  nay, 
He  says  he  's  hungry,  —  he  would  rather 

have 

That  little  barley-cake  you  keep  from  him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.     So  with 


ROMNEY   AND    AURORA 

But  oh,  the  night  !    oh,  bitter-sweet !  oh, 

sweet ! 

O  dark,  O  moon  and  stars,  O  ecstasy 
Of  darkness  !     O  great  mystery  of  love,  — 
In  which  absorb'd,  loss,  anguish,  treason's 

self 


Enlarges  rapture,  —  as  a  pebble  dropp'd 
In  some  full  wine-cup,  over-brims  the  wine  ! 
While  we  two  sate    together,  lean'd  that 

night 
So    close,   my   very   garments   crept    and 

thrill'd 
With  strange  electric  life  ;  and  both  my 

cheeks 
Grew  red,  then  pale,  with  touches  from  my 

hair 
In  which  his  breath  was  ;  while  the  golden 

moon 

Was  hung  before  our  faces  as  the  badge 
Of  some  sublime  inherited  despair, 
Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  only  one,  — 
A  voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a  sigh, 
Yet    breaking,  I    felt   conscious,    from    a 

smile,  — 
"  Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind,  to  make 

me  see  ! 

Shine  on,  Aurora,  dearest  light  of  souls, 
Which  rul'st  for  evermore   both  day  and 

night ! 
I  am  happy." 

I  flung  closer  to  his  breast, 
As    sword    that,    after    battle,    flings    to 

sheathe  ; 

And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls, 
The  mystic  motions,  which  in  common  moods 
Are  shut  beyond  our  sense,  broke  in  on  us, 
And,  as  we  sate,  we  felt  the  old  earth  spin, 
And  all  the  starry  turbulence  of  worlds 
Swing  round  us  in  their  audient  circles,  till 
If  that  same  golden  moon  were  overhead 
Or  if  beneath  our  feet,  we  did  not  know. 


THE    SLEEP 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuu'd  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ?  • 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 


MRS.   BROWNING  — DOMETT 


A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake  : 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes  say 

Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep : 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap  : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 


Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirm'd  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep. 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall ! 
He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep." 


3Ufrcti  Domett 


A   GLEE   FOR   WINTER 

HENCE,   rude   Winter !    crabbed  old  fel- 
low, 

Never  merry,  never  mellow  ! 
Well-a-day  !  in  rain  and  snow 
What  will  keep  one's  heart  aglow  ? 
Groups  of  kinsmen,  old  and  young, 
Oldest  they  old  friends  among  ; 
Groups  of  friends,  so  old  and  true 
That  they  seem  our  kinsmen  too  ; 
These  all  merry  all  together 
Charm  away  chill  Winter  weather. 

What  will  kill  this  dull  old  fellow  ? 
Ale  that 's  bright,  and  wine   that 's  mel- 
low ! 

Dear  old  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
Some  true  love,  and  laughter  too  ; 
Pleasant  wit,  and  harmless  fun, 
And  a  dance  when  day  is  done. 
Music,  friends  so  true  and  tried, 
Whisper'd  love  by  warm  fireside, 
Mirth  at  all  times  all  together, 
Make  sweet  May  of  Winter  weather. 


A   CHRISTMAS    HYMN 
(OLD  STYLE:  1837) 

IT  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  Queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars  ; 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hush'd  domam  j 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturb'd  their  ancient  reign, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 

Centuries  ago. 

'T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home. 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless 

sway  ; 

What  reck'd  the  Roman  what  befell 
A  paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago ! 


144 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor  : 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fall'n  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  pass'd  —  for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm  and  cold  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 

\  Centuries  ago  ! 

O  strange  indifference  !  —  low  and  high 
Drows'd  over  common  joys  and  cares  : 
The  earth  was  still  —  but  knew  not  why  ; 

The  world  was  listening  —  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One    that    shall    thrill    the  .world    for 

ever  ! 

To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed, 
Man's    doom   was    link'd,   no    more    to 
sever, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago. 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charm'd  and  holy  now. 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay  new-born 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  Earth  and  Hea- 
ven, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago. 


FROM   "A   CHRISTMAS    HYMN' 
(NEW  STYLE  :  1875) 

To  murder  one  so  young  ! 
To  still  that  wonder-teeming  tongue 
Ere  half  the  fulness  of  its  mellow'd  glory 
Had  flash 'd  in  mild  sheet-lightnings  forth! 
Who  knows,  had  that  majestic  Life  grown 

hoary, 
Long  vers'd  in  all  man's  weakness,  woes 

and  worth, 
What  beams  had  pierced  the  clouds  that 

veil  this  voyage  of  care  ! 
Not  Zeus,  nor  Baal's  throne, 
Nor  Osiris  alone, 

But  Doubt,  or  worse  assurance  of  Despair, 
Or  Superstition's  brood  that  blends  the  tiger 
with  the  hare. 

Who  knows  but  we  had  caught 
Some     hint     from     pure     impassion'd 

Thought, 
How  Matter's  links  and  Spirit's,  that  still 

fly  us, 

Can  break  and  still  leave  Spirit  free  ; 
How  Will  can  act  o'ermaster'd  by  no  bias  ; 

Why  Good  omnipotent  lets  Evil  be  ; 
What  balm  heals  beauteous  Nature's  uni- 
versal flaw  ; 
And  how,  below,  above, 
.It  is  Love,  and  only  Love 
Bids  keen  Sensation  glut  Destruction's 

maw  — 

Love  rolls  this  groaning  Sea  of   Life  on 
pitiless  rocks  of  Law  ! 


IBifliam 

GLENKINDIE 

ABOUT  Glenkindie  and  his  man 

A  false  ballant  hath  long  been  writ  ; 

Some  bootless  loon  had  written  it, 

Upon  a  bootless  plan  : 
But  I  have  found  the  true  at  last, 
And  here  it  is,  —  so  hold  it  fast ! 
'T  was  made  by  a  kind  damosel 
Who  lov'd  him  and  his  man  right  well. 

Glenkindie,  best  of  harpers,  came 

Unbidden  to  our  town  ; 
And  he  was  sad,  and  sad  to  see, 

For  love  had  worn  him  down. 


£cott 


It  was  love,  as  all  men  know, 
The  love  that  brought  him  down, 

The  hopeless  love  for  the  King's  daugh- 
ter, 
The  dove  that  heir'd  a  crown. 

Now  he  wore  not  that  collar  of  gold, 

His  dress  was  forest  green  ; 
His  wondrous  fair  and  rich  mantel 

Had  lost  its  silvery  sheen. 

But  still  by  his  side  walk'd  Rafe,  his  boy, 

In  goodly  cramoisie  : 
Of  all  the  boys  that  ever  I  saw 

The  goodliest  boy  was  he. 


WILLIAM   BELL   SCOTT 


'45 


0  Rafe  the  page  !     O  Rafe  the  page  ! 
Ye  stole  the  heart  frae  me  : 

0  Rafe  the  page  1     O  Rafe  the  page  ! 
I  wonder  where  ye  be  : 

We  ne'er  may  see  Glenkindie  more, 
But  may  we  never  see  thee  ? 

Glenkindie  came  within  the  hall  ; 

We  set  him  on  the  dais, 
And  gave  him  bread,  and  gave  him  wine, 

The  best  in  all  the  place. 

We  set  for  him  the  guests'  high  chair, 

And  spread  the  naperie  : 
Our  Dame  herself  would  serve  for  him, 

And  I  for  Rafe,  perdie  ! 

But  down  he  sat  on  a  low  low  stool, 

And  thrust  his  long  legs  out, 
And  lean'd  his  back  to  the  high  chair, 

And  turn'd  his  harp  about. 

He  turn'd  it  round,  he  strok'd  the  strings, 

He  touch'd  each  tirling-pin, 
He  put  his  mouth  to  the  sounding-board 

And  breath'd  his  breath  therein. 

And  Rafe  sat  over  against  his  face, 
And  look'd  at  him  wistfullie  : 

1  almost  grat  ere  he  began, 
They  were  so  sad  to  see. 

The  very  first  stroke  he  strack  that  day, 

We  all  came  crowding  near  ; 
And  the  second  stroke  he  strack  that  day, 

We  all  were  smit  with  fear. 

The  third  stroke  that  he  strack  that  day, 

Full  fain  we  were  to  cry  ; 
The  fourth  stroke  that  he  strack  that  day, 

We  thought  that  we  would  die. 

No  tongue  can  tell  how  sweet  it  was, 

How  far,  and  yet  how  near  : 
We  saw  the  saints  in  Paradise, 

And  bairnies  on  their  bier. 

And    our    sweet     Dame    saw    her    good 
lord  — 

She  told  me  privilie  : 
She  saw  him  as  she  saw  him  last, 

On  his  ship  upon  the  sea. 

Anon  he  laid  his  little  harp  by, 
He  shut  his  wondrous  eyes  ; 


We  stood  a  long  time  like  dumb  things, 
Stood  in  a  dumb  surprise. 

Then  all  at  once  we  left  that  trance, 
And  shouted  where  we  stood  ; 

We  clasp'd  each  other's  hands  and  vow'd 
We  would  be  wise  and  good. 

Soon  he  rose  up  and  Rafe  rose  too, 
He  drank  wine  and  broke  bread  ; 

He  clasp'd  hands  with  our  trembling  Dame, 
But  never  a  word  he  said  ; 

They  went,  —  Alack  and  lack-a-day  ! 
They  went  the  way  they  came. 

I  follow'd  them  all  down  the  floor, 

And  O  but  I  had  drouth 
To  touch  his  cheek,  to  touch  his  hand, 

To  kiss  R,afe's  velvet  mouth  ! 

But  I  knew  such  was  not  for  me. 

They  went  straight  from  the  door  ; 
We  saw  them  fade  within  the  mist, 

And  never  saw  them  more. 

YOUTH   AND   AGE 

OUR  night  repast  was  ended  :  quietness 
Return'd   again  :   the  boys  were   in   their 

books ; 

The  old  man  slept,  and  by  him  slept  his  dog  : 
My  thoughts  were  in  the  dream-land  of  to- 
morrow : 
A  knock  is  heard ;  anon  the  maid  brings 

in 

A  black-seal'd  letter  that  some  over-work'd 
Late  messenger  leaves.      Each  one  looks 

round  and  scans, 

But  lifts  it  not,  and  I  at  last  am  told 
To  read  it.     "  Died  here  at  his  house  this 

day"- 
Some  well-known  name  not  needful  here 

to  print, 

Follows  at  length.     Soon  all  return  again 
To  their  first  stillness,  but  the   old   man 

coughs, 
And  cries,  "  Ah,  he  was  always   like  the 

grave, 
And  still  he  was  but  yeung  !  "  while  those 

who  stand 

On  life's  green  threshold  smile  within  them- 
selves, 

Thinking  how  very  old  he  was  to  them, 
And   what   long  years,   what    memorable 
deeds, 


146 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


Are  theirs  in  prospect !  Little  care  have 
they 

What  old  man  dies,  what  child  is  born,  in- 
deed ; 

Their  day  is  coming,  and  their  sun  shall 
shine  ! 

PYGMALION 

;«  MISTRESS  of  gods  and  men  !    I  have  been 

thine 

From  boy  to  man,  and  many  a  myrtle  rod 
Have  I  made  grow  upon  thy  sacred  sod, 
Nor  ever  have  I  pass'd  thy  white  shafts  nine 
Without  some  votive  oifering  for  the  shrine, 
Carv'd  beryl  or  chas'd  bloodstone  ;  —  aid 

me  now, 

And  I  will  live  to  fashion  for  thy  brow 
Heart-breaking  priceless  things  :  oh,  make 

her  mine." 

Venus  inclin'd   her  ear,  and  through  the 

Stone 
Forthwith  slid  warmth  like  spring  through 

sapling-stems, 
And   lo,   the   eyelid   stirr'd,    beneath   had 

grown 

The  tremulous  light  of  life,  and  all  the  hems 
Of  her  zon'd  peplos  shook.  Upon  his  breast 
She  sank,  by  two  dread  gifts  at  once  op- 

press'd. 

MY    MOTHER 

THERE  was  a  gather'd  stillness  in  the  room : 
Only  the  breathing  of  the  great  sea  rose 
From  far  off,  aiding  that  profound  repose, 
With  regular  pulse  and  pause  within  the 

gloom 

Of  twilight,  as  if  some  impending  doom 
Was  now  approaching  ;  —  I  sat  moveless 

there, 
Watching  with  tears  and  thoughts  that  were 

like  prayer, 
Till  the  hour  struck,  —  the  thread  dropp'd 

from  the  loom  ; 
And  the  Bark  pass'd  in  which  freed  souls 

are  borne. 
The  dear  still'd  face  lay  there  ;  that  sound 

forlorn 

Continued  ;  I  rose  not,  but  long  sat  by  ; 
And  now  my  heart  oft  hears  that  sad  sea- 
shore, 

When  she  is  in  the  far-off  land,  and  I 
Wait  the  dark  sail  returning  yet  once  more. 


THE   NORNS   WATERING 
YGGDRASILL 

(FOR  A  PICTURE) 

WITHIN  the  unchanging  twilight 

Of  the  high  land  of  the  gods, 
Between  the  murmuring  fountain 

And  the  Ash-tree,  tree  of  trees, 
The  Norns,  the  terrible  maidens, 

For  evermore  come  and  go, 

Yggdrasill  the  populous  Ash-tree, 
Whose  leaves  embroider  heaven, 

Fills  all  the  gray  air  with  music  — 
To  Gods  and  to  men  sweet  sounds, 

But  speech  to  the  fine-ear'd  maidens 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

That  way  to  their  doomstead  thrones 

The  Aesir  ride  each  day, 
And  every  one  bends  to  the  saddle 

As  they  pass  beneath  the  shade  ; 
Even  Odin,  the  strong  All-father, 
Bends  to  the  beautiful  maidens 

Who  cease  not  to  come  and  go. 

The  tempest  crosses  the  high  boughs, 
The  great  snakes  heave  below, 

The  wolf,  the  boar,  and  antler'd  harts 
Delve  at  the  life-giving  roots, 

But  all  of  them  fear  the  wise  maidens, 

The  wise-hearted  water-bearers 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

And  men  far  away,  in  the  night-hours 
To  the  north-wind  listening,  hear  ; 

They  hear  the  howl  of  the  were-wolf, 
And  know  he  hath  felt  the  sting 

Of  the  eyes  of  the  potent  maidens 
Who  sleeplessly  come  and  go. 

They  hear  on  the  wings  of  the  north-wind 
A  sound  as  of  three  that  sing  ; 

And  the  skald,  in  the  blae  mist  wandering 
High  on  the  midland  fell, 

Heard  the  very  words  of  the  o'ersong 
Of  the  Norns  who  come  and  go. 

But  alas  for  the  ears  of  mortals 

Chance-hearing  that  fate-laden  song  ! 

The  bones  of  the  skald  lie  there  still  : 
For  the  speech  of  the  leaves  of  the  Tree 

Is  the  song  of  the  three  Queen-maideus 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 


SCOTT— LINTON 


147 


TO   THE    DEAD 
(A  PARAPHRASE) 

GONE  art  thou  ?  gone,  and  is  the  light  of 

day 
Still  shining,  is  my  hair  not  touch'd  with 

gray? 

But  evening  draweth  nigh,  I  pass  the  door, 
And  see  thee  walking  on  the  dim-lit  shore. 

Gone,  art  thou  ?  gone,  and  weary  on  the 

brink 
Of  Lethe  waiting  there.     O  do  not  drink, 


Drink  not,  forget  not,  wait  a  little  while, 
I  shall  be  with  thee  ;  we  again  may  smile. 

HERO-WORSHIP 

How  would  the  centuries  long  asunder 
Look  on  their  sires  with  angry  wonder, 
Could  some  strong  necromantic  power 
Revive  them  for  one  spectral  hour  ! 
Bondsmen  of  the  past  are  we,  — 
Predestin'd  bondsmen  :  could  we  see 
The  dead  now  deified,  again 
Peering  among  environing  men, 
We  might  be  free. 


Hinton 


EVICTION! 

LONG  years  their  cabin  stood 

Out  on  the  moor  ; 
More  than  one  sorrow-brood 

Pass'd  through  their  door  ; 
Ruin  them  over-cast, 
Worse  than  one  wintry  blast  ; 
Famine's  plague  follow'd  fast  : 

God  help  the  poor  ! 

There  on  that  heap  of  fern, 

Gasping  for  breath, 
Lieth  the  wretched  ke'rn, 

Waiting  for  death  : 
Famine  had  brought  him  low  ; 
Fever  had  caught  him  so,  — 
O  thou  sharp-grinding  woe, 

Outwear  thy  sheath  ! 

Dying,  or  living  here  — 
Which  is  the  worse  ? 

Misery's  heavy  tear, 

Back  to  thy  source  ! 

Who  dares  to  lift  her  head 

Up  from  the  scarcely  dead  ? 

Who  pulls  the  crazy  shed 
Down  on  the  corse  ? 

What  though  some  rent  was  due, 
Hast  thou  no  grace  ? 

So  may  God  pardon  you, 
Shame  of  your  race  ! 


What  though  that  home  may  be 
Wretched  and  foul  to  see, 
What  if  God  harry  thee 
Forth  from  His  face  ? 

Widow 'd  and  orphan'd  ones, 

Flung  from  your  rest  ! 
Where  will  you  lay  your  bones  ? 

Bad  was  your  best. 
Out  on  the  dreary  road, 
Where  shall  be  their  abode  ? 
One  of  them  sleeps  with  God  : 

Where  are  the  rest  ? 

PATIENCE1 

BE  patient,  O  be  patient !     Put  your  eai 

against  the  earth  ; 
Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o'  the 

seed  has  birth  ; 
How  noiselessly  and  gently  it  upheaves  its 

little  way 
Till  it  parts  the  scarcely-broken  ground, 

and  the  blade  stands  up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient,   O   be   patient !  the  germs  of 

mighty  thought 
Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must 

underground  be  wrought  ; 
But,  as  sure  as  ever  there  's  a  Power  that 

makes  the  grass  appear, 
Our  land  shall  be  green  with  Liberty,  the 

blade-time  shall  be  here. 


1  From  his  early  Poems  of  Freedom. 


148 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  go  and  watch  the 

wheat-ears  grow, 
So  imperceptibly  that   ye   can   mark   nor 

change  nor  throe  : 
Day  after  day,  day  after  day  till  the  ear  is 

fully  grown  ; 
And  then   again  day  after  day,   till  the 

ripen'd  field  is  brown. 

Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  though  yet  our 

hopes  are  green, 
The    harvest-field   of    Freedom    shall    be 

crown'd  with  the  sunny  sheen. 
Be   ripening,   be   ripening  !    mature   your 

silent  way 
Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued  with 

fire  on  Freedom's  harvest  day. 

OUR    CAUSE1 

So,  Freedom,  thy  great  quarrel  may  we 

serve, 

With  truest  zeal  that,  sensitive  of  blame, 
Ever  thy  holy  banner  would  preserve 
As  pure  as  woman's  love  or  knightly  fame. 

And  though  detraction's  flood  we  proudly 

breast, 

Or,  weakening,  sink  in  that  unfathom'd  sea, 
Ever  we  '11  keep  aloft  our  banner,  lest 
Even  the  black  spray  soil  its  purity. 

My  life  be  branded  and  my  name  be  flung 

To  infamy  ;  —  beloved,  I  will  wear 

Thy   beauty   on   my    shield,  till  even  the 

tongue 
Of  falsehood  echo  truth,  and  own  thee  fair. 

HEART   AND   WILL1 

OUR  England's  heart  is  sound  as  oak  ; 

Our  English  will  is  firm  ; 
And  through  our  actions  Freedom  spoke 

In  history's  proudest  term  : 
When  Blake  was  lord  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  Cromwell  rul'd  the  land, 
And  Milton's  words  were  shields  of  power 

To  stay  the  oppressor's  hand. 

Our  England's  heart  is  yet  as  sound, 

As  firm  our  English  will  ; 
And  tyrants,  be  they  cowl'd  or  crown'd, 

Shall  find  us  fearless  still. 
And  though  our  Vane  be  in  his  tomb, 

Though  Hampden's  blood  is  cold, 


Their  spirits  live  to  lead  our  doom 
As  in  the  days  of  old. 

Our  England's  heart  is  stout  as  oak  ; 

Our  English  will  as  brave 
As  when  indignant  Freedom  spoke 

From  Eliot's  prison  grave. 
And  closing  yet  again  with  Wrong, 

A  world  in  arms  shall  see 
Our  England  foremost  of  the  strong 

And  first  among  the  free. 


FROM 
MEMORY 


<A  THRENODY:  IN 
OF  ALBERT  DARASZ n 


O  BLESSED  Dead  !  beyond  all  earthly  pains: 
Beyond  the  calculation  of  low  needs  ; 
Thy  growth  no  longer  chok'd  by  earthly 

weeds ; 
Thy  spirit   clear'd   from   care's    corrosive 

chains. 

O  blessed  Dead  !  O  blessed  Life-in-death, 
Transcending  all  life's  poor  decease  of 
breath ! 

Thou  walkest  not  upon  some  desolate  moor 
In  the  storm-wildering  midnight,  when 

thine  own, 
Thy  trusted  friend,  hath  lagg'd  and  left 

thee  lone. 

He  knows  not  poverty  who,  being  poor, 
Hath  still  one  friend.     But  he  who  fain 

had  kept 
The  comrade  whom  his  zeal  .hath  over- 

stept. 

Thou  sufferest  not  the  friendly  cavilling 
Impugning  motive  ;  nor  that  worse  than 

spear 
Of  foeman,  —  biting  doubt  of  one  most 

dear 

Laid  in  thy  deepest  heart,  a  barbed  sting 
Never  to  be  withdrawn.     For  we  were 

friends  : 
Alas  !  and  neither  to  the  other  bends. 

Thou  hast  escap'd  continual  falling  off 
Of  old  companions  ;  and  that  aching  void 
Of  the  proud  heart  which  has  been  over- 
buoy 'd 
With  friendship's  idle  breath  ;  and  now  the 

scoff 

Of  failure  even  as  idly  passeth  by 
Thy     poor     remains  :  —  Thou    soaring 
through  the  sky. 


1  From  his  early  Poems  of  Freedom. 


WILLIAM  JAMES   LINTON 


149 


Knowing  no  more  that  malady  of  hope  — 

The    sickness    of    deferral,    thou    canst 
look 

Thorsugh  the  heavens  and,  healthily  pa- 
tient, brook 
Delay,  —  defeat.     For  in  thy  vision's  scope 

Most  distant  cometh.     We  might  see  it 
too, 

But    dizzying    faintness    overveils    our 
view. 

And  when  disaster  flings  us  in  the  dust, 
Or  when  we  wearily  drop  on  the  highway- 
side, 
Or  when  in  prison'd,  exil'd  depths  the 

pride 

Of  suffering  bows  its  head,  as  oft  it  must, 
We  cannot,  looking  on  thy  wasted  corse, 
Perceive   the   future.     Lend  us  of  thy 
force  ! 

LOVE   AND   YOUTH 

Two  winged  genii  in  the  air 
I  greeted  as  they  pass'd  me  by  : 
The  one  a  bow  and  quiver  bare, 

The  other  shouted  joyously. 
Both  I  besought  to  stay  their  speed, 
But  never  Love  nor  Youth  had  heed 
Of  my  wild  cry. 

As  swift  and  careless  as  the  wind, 
Youth  fled,  nor  ever  once  look'd  back  ; 
A  moment  Love  was  left  behind, 

But  follow'd  soon  his  fellow's  track. 
Yet  loitering  at  my  heart  he  bent 
His  bow,  then  smil'd  with  changed  intent  : 
The  string  was  slack. 

TOO    LATE 

YES  !  thou  art  fair,  and  I  had  lov'd 
If  we  in  earlier  hours  had  met  ; 
But  ere  tow'rd  me  thy  beauty  mov'd 
The  sun  of  Love's  brief  day  had  set. 

Though  I  may  watch  thy  opening  bloom, 
And  its  rich  promise  gladly  see, 
'T  will  not  procrastinate  my  doom  : 
The  ripen'd  fruit  is  not  for  me. 

Yet,  had  I  shar'd  thy  course  of  years, 
And  young  as  Hope  beheld  thy  charms, 
The  love  that  only  now  endears 
Perchance  had  given  thee  to  my  arms. 


Vain,  vain  regret !     Another  day 
Will  kiss  the  buds  of  younger  flowers, 
But  ne'er  will  evening  turn  away 
From  love  untimelier  than  ours. 

WEEP   NOT!   SIGH   NOT! 

WEEP  not !  tears  must  vainly  fall, 

Though  they  fall  like  rain  : 
Sorrow's  flood  shall  not  recall 
Love  's  dear  life  again. 

Vain  thy  tears, 
Vain  thy  sobs  ; 
As  vain  heart-throbs 

Of  lonely  years 
Since  thou  Love  hast  slain. 

Sigh  not !     As  a  passed  wind 

Is  but  sought  in  vain, 
Sighs  nor  groans  may  not  unbind 
Death's  unbroken  chain. 

Sighs  and  tears 
Nought  avail, 
Nor  cheeks  grown  pale 

In  lonely  years. 
Love  comes  not  again. 

SPRING  AND   AUTUMN 

"Tnou  wilt  forget  me."     "Love  has  no 

such  word." 
The  soft  Spring  wind  is  whispering  to  the 

trees. 
Among  lime-blossoms  have  the  hovering 

bees 

Those  whispers  heard  ? 

"  Or  thou  wilt  change."     "  Love  changeth 

not,"  he  said. 
The   purple    heather  cloys    the  air  with 

scent 

Of  honey.     O'er  the  moors  her  lover  went, 
Nor  turn'd  his  head. 

LOVE'S    BLINDNESS 

THEY  call  her  fair.     I  do  not  know  ? 

I  never  thought  to  look. 
Who  heeds  the  binder's  costliest  show 

When  he  may  read  the  book  ? 

What  need  a  list  of  parts  to  me 
When  I  possess  the  whole  ? 

Who  only  watch  her  eyes  to  see 
The  color  of  her  soul. 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


I  may  not  praise  her  mouth,  her  chin, 
Her  feet,  her  hands,  her  arms  : 

My  love  lacks  leisure  to  begin 
The  schedule  of  her  charms. 

To  praise  is  only  to  compare  : 
And  therefore  Love  is  blind. 

I  lov'd  before  I  was  aware 
Her  beauty  was  of  kind. 

THE   SILENCED    SINGER 

THE  nest  is  built,  the  song  hath  ceas'd  : 
The  minstrel  joineth  in  the  feast, 
So  singeth  not.     The  poet's  verse, 
Crippled  by  Hymen's  household  curse, 
Follows  no  more  its  hungry  quest. 
Well  if  Love's  feathers  line  the  nest. 

Yet  blame  not  that  beside  the  fire 
Love  hangeth  up  his  unstrung  lyre  ! 
How  sing  of  hope  when  Hope  hath  fled, 
Joy  whispering  lip  to  lip  instead  ? 


Or  how  repeat  the  tuneful  moan 
When  the  Obdurate  's  all  my  own  ? 

Love,  like  the  lark,  while  soaring  sings  : 
Wouldst  have  him  spread  again  his  wings  ? 
What  careth  he  for  higher  skies 
Who  on  the  heart  of  harvest  lies, 
And  finds  both  sun  and  firmament 
Clos'd  in  the  round  of  his  content  ? 

EPICUREAN 

IN  Childhood's  unsuspicious  hours 

The  fairies  crown'd  my  head  with  flowers. 

Youth  came  :  I  lay  at  Beauty's  feet ; 
She  smil'd  and  said  my  song  was  sweet. 

Then  Age,  and,  Love  no  longer  mine, 
My  brows  I  shaded  with  the  vine. 

With  flowers  and  love  and  wine  and  song, 
O  Death  !  life  hath  not  been  too  long. 


ftotet 

WE'LL  A'  GO  PU'  THE  HEATHER 

WE  'LL  a'  go  pu  the  heather, 

Our  byres  are  a'  to  theek  : 
Unless  the  peat-stack  get  a  hap, 

We  '11  a'  be  smoor'd  wi'  reek. 
Wi'  rantin'  sang  awa'  we  '11  gang, 

While  summer  skies  are  blue, 
To  fend  against  the  winter  cauld 

The  heather  we  will  pu'. 

I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

We  're  aye  sae  mirthf  u'  where 
The  sunshine  creeps  atour  the  crags, 

Like  ravell'd  golden  hair. 
Where  on  the  hill-tap  we  can  stand 

Wi'  joyfu'  heart  I  trow, 
And  mark  ilk  grassy  bank  and  holm, 

As  we  the  heather  pu'. 

I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

Where  harmless  lambkins  run, 
Or  lay  them  down  beside  the  burn 

Like  gowans  in  the  sun  ; 
Where  ilka  foot  can  tread  upon 

The  heath-flower  wet  wi'  dew, 
When  comes  the  starnie  ower  the  hill, 

While  we  the  heather  pu'. 


I  like  to  pu'  the  heather, 

For  ane  can  gang  awa', 
But  no  before  a  glint  o'  love 

On  some  ane's  e'e  doth  fa'. 
Sweet  words  we  dare  to  whisper  there, 

"  My  hinny  and  my  doo," 
Till  maistly  we  wi'  joy  could  greet 

As  we  the  heather  pu'. 

We  '11  a'  go  pu'  the  heather, 

For  at  yon  mountain  fit 
There  stands  a  broom  bush  by  a  burn, 

Where  twa  young  folk  can  sit  : 
He  meets  me  there  at  morning's  rise, 

My  beautiful  and  true. 
My  father  said  the  word  —  the  morn 

The  heather  we  will  pu'. 

BONNIE   BESSIE   LEE 

BONNIE   Bessie   Lee    had    a  face    fu'   o' 

smiles, 
And  mirth  round  her  ripe  lip  was  aye 

dancing  slee  ; 
And  light  was  the  footfa',  and  winsome  the 

wiles, 

0'  the  flower  o'  the  parochin  —  our  aiu 
Bessie  Lee. 


ROBERT   NICOLL 


Wi'  the  bairns  she  would  rin,  and  the  school 

laddies  paik, 
And  o'er  the  broomy  braes  like  a  fairy 

would  flee, 
Till  auld  hearts  grew  young  again  wi'  love 

for  her  sake  : 

There  was  life   in  the  blithe  blink  o' 
Bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

She  grat  wi'  the  waefu',  and  laugh'd  wi' 

the  glad, 
And  light  as  the  wind  'mang  the  dancers 

was  she  ; 
And  a  tongue  that  could  jeer,  too,  the  little 

limmer  had, 

Whilk  keepit  aye  her  ain  side  for  Bonnie 
Bessie  Lee. 

And  she  whiles  had  a  sweetheart,  and  some- 
times had  twa  — 
A  limmer  o'  a  lassie  !  —  but,  atween  you 

and  me, 
Her  warm  wee  bit  heartie  she  ne'er  threw 

awa', 

Though  mony  a  ane  had  sought  it  frae 
Bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

But  ten  years  had  gane  since  I  gaz'd  on 

her  last, 
For  ten  years  had  parted  my  auld  name 

and  me  ; 
And  I  said  to  mysel',  as  her  mither's  door 

I  past, 

"  Will  I  ever  get  anither  kiss  frae  Bon- 
nie Bessie  Lee  ?  " 

But  Time  changes  a'  thing  —  the  ill-natur'd 

loon  ! 
Were  it  ever  sae  rightly  he  '11  no  let  it 

be  ; 
But  I  rubbit  at  my  een,  and  I  thought  I 

would  swoon, 

How  the  carle  had  come  roun'  about  our 
ain  Bessie  Lee  ! 

* 

The  wee  laughing  lassie  was  a  gudewife 

grown  auld, 
Twa  weans  at  her  apron  and  ane  on  her 

knee  ; 
She  was   douce,   too,   and  wiselike  —  and 

wisdom  's  sae  cauld  : 
I  would  rather  ha'e  the  ither  ane  than 
this  Bessie  Lee  ! 


THE    HERO 

MY  hero  is  na  deck'd  wi'  gowd, 

He  has  nae  glittering  state  ; 
Renown  upon  a  field  o'  blood 

In  war  he  hasna  met. 
He  has  nae  siller  in  his  pouch, 

Nae  menials  at  his  ca'  ; 
The  proud  o'  earth  frae  him  would  turn, 

And  bid  him  stand  awa'. 

His  coat  is  hame-spun  hodden-gray, 

His  shoon  are  clouted  sair, 
His  garments,  maist  unhero-like, 

Are  a'  the  waur  o'  wear  : 
His  limbs  are  strong — his  shoulders  broad, 

His  hands  were  made  to  plough  ; 
He  's  rough  without,  but  sound  within  ; 

His  heart  is  bauldly  true. 

He  toils  at  e'en,  he  toils  at  morn, 

His  wark  is  never  through  ; 
A  coming  life  o'  weary  toil 

Is  ever  in  his  view. 
But  on  he  trudges,  keeping  aye 

A  stout  heart  to  the  brae, 
And  proud  to  be  an  honest  man 

Until  his  dying  day. 

His  hame  a  hame  o'  happiness 

And  kindly  love  may  be  ; 
And  monie  a  nameless  dwelling-place 

Like  his  we  still  may  see. 
His  happy  altar-hearth  so  bright 

Is  ever  bleezing  there  ; 
And  cheerfu'  faces  round  it  set 

Are  an  unending  prayer. 

The  poor  man  in  his  humble  hame, 

Like  God,  who  dwells  aboon, 
Makes  happy  hearts  around  him  there, 

Sae  joyfu'  late  and  soon. 
His  toil  is  sair,  his  toil  is  lang  ; 

But  weary  nights  and  days, 
Hame  — happiness  akin  to  his  — 

A  hunder-fauld  repays. 

Go,  mock  at  conquerors  and  kings  f 

What  happiness  give  they  ? 
Go,  tell  the  painted  butterflies 

To  kneel  them  down  and  pray  ! 
Go,  stand  erect  in  manhood's  pride, 

Be  what  a  man  should  be, 
Then  come,  and  to  my  hero  bend 

Upon  the  grass  your  knee  ! 


152 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


<CaH 


THE   PEOPLE'S    PETITION 

O  LORDS  !  O  rulers  of  the  nation  ! 
O  softly  cloth'd  !  O  richly  fed  ! 
O  men  of  wealth  and  noble  station  ! 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

For  you  we  are  content  to  toil, 
For  you  our  blood  like  rain  is  shed  ; 
Then,  lords  and  rulers  of  the  soil, 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Your  silken  robes,  with  endless  care, 
Still  weave  we  ;  still  uncloth'd,  unfed, 
We  make  the  raiment  that  ye  wear  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

In  the  red  forge-light  do  we  stand, 
We  early  leave  —  late  seek  our  bed, 
Tempering  the  steel  for  your  right  hand  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

We  sow  your  fields,  ye  reap  the  fruit ; 
We  live  in  misery  and  in  dread  ; 
Hear  but  our  prayer,  and  we  are  mute  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Throughout  old  England's  pleasant  fields 
There  is  no  spot  where  we  may  tread, 
No  house  to  us  sweet  shelter  yields  : 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

Fathers  are  we  ;  we  see  our  sons, 
We  see  our  fair  young  daughters,  dead  ; 
Then  hear  us,  O  ye  mighty  ones  ! 
Give  us  our  daily  bread. 

'T  is  vain  —  with  cold,  unfeeling  eye 
Ye  gaze  on  us,  uncloth'd,  unfed  ; 
'T  is  vain  —  ye  will  not  hear  our  cry, 
Nor  give  us  daily  bread. 

We  turn  from  you,  our  lords  by  birth, 
To  him  who  is  our  Lord  above  ; 
We  all  are  made  of  the  same  earth, 
Are  children  of  one  love. 

Then,  Father  of  this  world  of  wonders, 
Judge  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Lord  of  the  lightnings  and  the  thunders, 
Give  us  our  daily  bread  ! 


SUMMER  DAYS 

IN  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We    walk'd,    two    friends,    in    field    and 

wood  ; 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong, 
And  life  lay  round  us,  fair  as  good, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  stray'd  from  morn  till  evening  came, 
We  gather'd  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns  ; 
We  walk'd  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 
Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs, 
And  always  wish'd  our  life  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We  leap'd  the  hedgerow,  cross'd  the  brook  ; 
And  still  her  voice  flow'd  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon  ; 
And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  revell'd,  many  a  glorious  June, 
While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 
We   pluck'd  wild  strawberries,  ripe   and 

red, 

Or  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song, 
On  golden  nectar,  snow-white  bread, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  lov'd,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not, 
For  loving  seem'd  like  breathing  then  ; 
We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men, 
And  dream'd  of  gods  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander,  muse  alone  ; 
I  see  her  not,  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood, 
But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 
And  half  I  see  the  crimson  hood, 
The  radiant  hair,  the  calm  glad  eyes, 
That  charm'd  me  in  life's  summer  mood 


WELDON  — EMILY   BRONTE 


In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 

I  love  her  as  I  lov'd  of  old  ; 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong, 


THE  POEM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE 

THE  Poem  of  the  Universe 
Nor  rhythm  has  nor  rhyme  ; 

Some  God  recites  the  wondrous  song 
A  stanza  at  a  time. 

Great  deeds  is  he  foredoom'd  to  do, 
With  Freedom's  flag  unfurl'd, 

Who  hears  the  echo  of  that  song 
As  it  goes  down  the  world. 


For    love    brings    back    those    hours    of 

gold, 
In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 


IDdfcou 

Great  words  he  is  compell'd  to  speak 
Who  understands  the  song  ; 

He  rises  up  like  fifty  men, 
Fifty  good  men  and  strong. 

A  stanza  for  each  century  : 
Now  heed  it,  all  who  can  ! 

Who  hears  it,  he,  and  only  he, 
Is  the  elected  man. 


SONG 

THE  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells, 

The  moor-lark  in  the  air, 
The  bee  among  the  heather  bells 

That  hide  my  lady  fair. 

The  wild  deer  browse  above  her  breast ; 

The  wild  birds  raise  their  brood  ; 
And  they,  her  smiles  of  love  caress'd, 

Have  left  her  solitude. 

I  ween  that,  when  the  grave's  dark  wall 

Did  first  her  form  retain, 
They  thought  their  hearts  could  ne'er  recall 

The  light  of  joy  again. 

They  thought  the  tide  of  grief  would  flow 
Uncheck'd  through  future  years  ; 

But  where  is  all  their  anguish  now, 
And  where  are  all  their  tears  ? 

Well,  let  them  fight  for  honor's  breath, 

Or  pleasure's  shade  pursue  : 
The  dweller  in  the  land  of  death 

Is  changed  and  careless  too. 

And,  if  their  eyes  should  watch  and  weep 
Till  sorrow's  source  were  dry, 

She  would  not,  in  her  tranquil  sleep, 
Return  a  single  sigh. 


Blow,  west-wind,  by  the  lonely  mound. 
And  murmur,  summer  streams  ! 

There  is  no  need  of  other  sound 
To  soothe  my  lady's  dreams. 

THE    OLD    STOIC 

RICHES  I  hold  in  light  esteem, 
And  Love  I  laugh  to  scorn  ; 

And  lust  of  fame  was  but  a  dream 
That  vanish'd  with  the  morn  ; 

And  if  I  pray,  the  only  prayer 
That  moves  my  lips  for  me 

Is,  "  Leave  the  heart  that  now  I  bear. 
And  give  me  liberty  !  " 

Yes,  as  my  swift  days  near  their  goal, 

'T  is  all  that  I  implore  : 
In  life  and  death  a  chainless  soul, 

With  courage  to  endure. 

WARNING   AND    REPLY 

IN  the  earth — the  earth — thou  shalt  be  laid 
A  gray  stone  standing  over  thee  ; 

Black  mould  beneath  thee  spread, 
And  black  mould  to  cover  thee, 

"  Well  —  there  is  rest  there, 
So  fast  come  thy  prophecy  = 


154 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


The  time  when  my  sunny  hair 

Shall  with  grass  roots  entwined  be." 

But  cold  —  cold  is  that  resting-place, 
Shut  out  from  joy  and  liberty, 

And  all  who  lov'd  thy  living  face 
Will  shrink  from  it  shudderingly. 

"  Not  so.  Here  the  world  is  chill, 
And  sworn  friends  fall  from  me  ; 

But  there  —  they  will  own  me  still, 
And  prize  my  memory." 

Farewell,  then,  all  that  love, 

All  that  deep  sympathy  : 
Sleep  on  :  Heaven  laughs  above, 

Earth  never  misses  thee. 

Turf-sod  and  tombstone  drear 

Part  human  company  ; 
One  heart  breaks  only  —  here, 

But  that  heart  was  worthy  thee  ! 

STANZAS 

OFTEN  rebuk'd,  yet  always  back  returning 
To  those  first  feelings  that  were  born  with 

me, 
And  leaving  busy,  chase   of    wealth    and 

learning 

For  idle  dreams  of  things  which  cannot 
be  ; 

To-day,  I  will  seek  not  the  shadowy  region  ; 

Its  unsustaining  vastness  waxes  drear  ; 
And  visions  rising,  legion  after  legion, 

Bring  the  unreal  world  too  strangely  near. 

1 11  walk,  but  not  in  old  heroic  traces, 
And  not  in  paths  of  high  morality, 

And  not  among  the  half-distinguish'd  faces, 
The  clouded  forms  of  long-past  history. 

1 11  walk  where  my  own  nature  would  be 

leading :    . 

It  vexes  me  to  choose  another  guide  : 
Where  the  gray  flocks  in  ferny  glens  are 

feeding ; 

Where  the  wild  wind  blows  on  the  moun- 
tain side. 


What  have  those  lonely  mountains  worth 

revealing  ? 
More  glory  and  more  grief  than  I  can 

tell: 
The  earth  that  wakes  one  human  heart  to 

feeling 

Can  centre  both  the  worlds  of  Heaven 
and  Hell. 

HER    LAST    LINES 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled 

sphere  : 

I  see  Heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me   from 
fear. 

O  God  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity  ! 

Life  —  that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I  —  undying  Life  —  have  power  in  thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  wither'd  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchor'd  on 
The  steadfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,   creates,   and 
rears. 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceas'd  to  be, 

And  Thou  were  left  alone, 
Every  existence  would  exist  in  Thee. 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render 

void  : 

Thou  —  Thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And   what   Thou    art  may  never  be   de« 
stroy'd. 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW  DAY 


3Unn 


("GEORGE   ELIOT") 


«O  MAY  I  JOIN   THE   CHOIR  IN- 
VISIBLE" 

Longum  illudjtempus.  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet, 
ijuam  hoc  exiguum.  —  Cicero,  ad  Alt.,  xii.  18. 

0  MAY  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  : 

live 

In  pulses  stirr'd  to  generosity, 
In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 
For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 
In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night 

like  stars, 
And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's 

search 
To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing   sway   the  growing   life   of 

man. 

So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  fail'd,  and  ago- 

niz'd 

"With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child, 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolv'd  ; 
Its    discords,   quench'd    by    meeting   har- 
monies, 

Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobb'd  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watch'd   to  ease  the  burthen  of  the 

world, 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better,  —  saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shap'd  it  forth  before  the  multitude, 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To   higher    reverence    more    mix'd    with 

love,  — 
That    better   self    shall    live    till    human 

Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gather'd  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which    martyr'd   men    have   made    more 

glorious 


For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty, 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffus'd, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense  ! 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world, 

SONGS     FROM     "THE     SPANISH 
GYPSY" 

THE   DARK 

SHOULD  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 

Say,  O  song, 

Lacks  my  love  aught,  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  night,  with  breath  all  flow'rs, 

And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 

With  ravishment  the  listening  hours  : 

Whisperings,  wooings, 

Liquid  ripples  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 

In   low-ton'd    rhythm    that   love's    aching 

stills. 

Dark  the  night, 
Yet  is  she  bright, 

For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star, 
Trembling  yet  strong,  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 
From  some  unknown  afar. 
O  radiant  Dark  !  O  darkly-fostered  ray  ! 
Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 

SONG  OF  THE  Zl'XCALI 

ALL  things  journey  :  sun  and  moon, 
Morning,  noon,  and  afternoon, 

Night  and  all  her  stars  : 
'Twixt  the  east  and  western  bars 

Round  they  journey, 
Come  and  go. 

We  go  with  them  ! 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zmcali's  loved  home. 

Earth  is  good,  the  hillside  breaks 
By  the  ashen  roots  and  makes 

Hungry  nostrils  glad  ; 
Then  we  run  till  we  are  mad, 

Like  the  horses, 


156 


POETS   OF  THE  NEW   DAY 


And  we  cry, 
None  shall  catch  us  ! 
Swift  winds  wing  us  —  we  are  free  — 
Drink  the  air  —  we  Zincali  ! 

Falls  the  snow  :  the  pine-branch  split, 
Call  the  fire  out,  see  it  flit, 

Through  the  dry  leaves  run, 
Spread  and  glow,  and  make  a  sun 

In  the  dark  tent  : 
O  warm  dark  ! 

Warm  as  conies  ! 


Strong  fire  loves  us,  we  are  warm  ! 
Who  the  Zfncali  shall  harm  ? 

Onward  journey  :  fires  are  spent ; 
Sunward,  sunward  !  lift  the  tent, 

Run  before  the  rain, 
Through  the  pass,  afong  the  plain. 

Hurry,  hurry, 
Lift  us,  wind  ! 

Like  the  horses. 
For  to  roam  and  ever  roam 
Is  the  Zfncali's  loved  home. 


EARTH'S   BURDENS 

WHY  groaning  so,  thou  solid  earth, 
Though  sprightly  summer  cheers  ? 

Or  is  thine  old  heart  dead  to  mirth  ? 
Or  art  thou  bow'd  by  years  ? 

"  Nor  am  I  cold  to  summer's  prime, 
Nor  knows  my  heart  decay  ; 

Nor  am  I  bow'd  by  countless  time, 
Thou  atom  of  a  day  ! 

"  I  lov'd  to  list  when  tree  and  tide 

Their  gentle  music  made, 
And  lightly  on  my  sunny  side 

To  feel  the  plough  and  spade. 

"  I  lov'd  to  hold  my  liquid  way 
Through  floods  of  living  light ; 

To  kiss  the  sun's  bright  hand  by  day, 
And  count  the  stars  by  night. 

"  I  lov'd  to  hear  the  children's  glee, 

Around  the  cottage  door, 
And  peasant's  song  right  merrily 

The  glebe  come  ringing  o'er. 


"  But  man  upon  my  back  has  roll'd 

Such  heavy  loads  of  stone, 
I  scarce  can  grow  the  harvest  gold  : 

'Tis  therefore  that  I  groan. 

"  And  when  the  evening  dew  sinks  mild 

Upon  my  quiet  breast, 
I  feel  the  tear  of  the  houseless  child 

Break  burning  on  my  rest. 

"  Oh  !  where  are  all  the  hallow'd  sweets, 

The  harmless  joys  I  gave  ? 
The  pavement  of  your  sordid  streets 

Are  stones  on  Virtue's  grave. 

"  And  thick  and  fast  as  autumn  leaves 

My  children  drop  away, 
A  gathering  of  unripen'd  sheaves 

By  premature  decay. 

"  Gaunt  misery  holds  the  cottage  door, 

And  olden  honor  's  flown, 
And  slaves  are  slavish  more  and  more  : 

'T  is  therefore  that  I  groan." 


THE  WRECK 

ITS  masts  of  might,  its  sails  so  free, 
Had  borne  the  scatheless  keel 
Through  many  a  day  of  darken'd  aea, 


And  many  a  storm  of  steel ; 

When  all  the  winds  were  calm,  it  met 

(With  home-returning  prore) 

With  the  lull 

Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 


RUSKIN— JONES 


The  crest  of  the  conqueror 
On  many  a  brow  was  bright  ; 
The  dew  of  many  an  exile's  eye 
Had  dimm'd  the  dancing  sight ; 
And  for  love  and  for  victory 
One  welcome  was  in  store, 

In  the  lull 

Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

The  voices  of  the  night  are  mute 
Beneath  the  moon's  eclipse  ; 
The  silence  of  the  fitful  flute 
Is  on  the  dying  lips. 
The  silence  of  my  lonely  heart 


Is  kept  forevermore 
In  the  lull 
Of  the  waves 
On  a  low  lee  shore. 

TRUST   THOU   THY    LOVE 

TRUST  thou  thy  Love  :  if  she  be  proud,  is 

she  not  sweet  ? 
Trust  thou  thy  Love  :  if  she  be  mute,  is 

she  not  pure  ? 
Lay  thou  thy  soul  full  in  her  hands,  low  at 

her  feet  ;  — 

Fail,    Sun   and   Breath  !  —  yet,   for   thy 
peace,  she  shall  endure. 


SONG    OF   THE    KINGS    OF 
GOLD 

OURS  all  are  marble  halls, 
Amid  untrodden  groves 
Where  music  ever  calls, 
Where  faintest  perfume  roves  ; 
And  thousands  toiling  moan, 
That  gorgeous  robes  may  fold 
The  haughty  forms  alone 
Of  us  —  the  Kings  of  Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We  cannot  count  our  slaves, 
Nothing  bounds  our  sway, 
Our  will  destroys  and  saves, 
We  let,  we  create,  we  slay. 
Ha  !  ha  !  who  are  Gods  ? 

Purple,  and  crimson,  and  blue, 
Jewels,  and  silks,  and  pearl, 
All  splendors  of  form  and  hue, 
Our  charm'd  existence  furl  ; 
When  dared  shadow  dim 
The  glow  in  our  winecups  roll'd  ? 
When  droop'd  the  banquet-hymn 
Rais'd  for  the  Kings  of  Gold  ? 
(Chorus.) 

The  earth,  the  earth,  is  ours  ! 
Its  corn,  its  fruits,  its  wine, 
Its  sun,  its  rain,  its  flowers, 
Ours,  all,  all  !  —  cannot  shine 


One  sunlight  ray,  but  where 
Our  mighty  titles  hold  ; 
Wherever  life  is,  there 
Possess  the  Kings  of  Gold. 
(Chorus.) 

And  all  on  earth  that  lives, 
Woman,  and  man,  and  child, 
Us  trembling  homage  gives  ; 
Aye  trampled,  sport-defil'd, 
None  dareth  raise  one  frown, 
Or  slightest  questioning  hold  ; 
Our  scorn  but  strikes  them  down 
To  adore  the  Kings  of  Gold. 
(Chorus.) 


In  a  glorious  sea  of  hate, 

Eternal  rocks  we  stand  ; 

Our  joy  is  our  lonely  state, 

And  our  trust,  our  own  right  hand  ; 

We  frown,  and  nations  shrink  ; 

They  curse,  but  our  swords  are  old  ; 

And  the  wine  of  their  rage  deep  drink 

The  dauntless  Kings  of  Gold. 

(Chorus.) 

We  cannot  count  our  slaves, 
Nothing  bounds  our  sway, 
Our  will  destroys  and  saves, 
We  let,  we  create,  we  slay. 
Ha  !  ha  !  who  are  Gods  ? 


158 


THE   RHAPSODISTS 


THE  FACE 

THESE  dreary  hours  of  hopeless  gloom 
Are  all  of  life  I  fain  would  know  ; 
I  would  but  feel  my  life  consume, 
While  bring  they  back  mine  ancient  woe  ; 
For,  midst  the  clouds  of  grief  and  shame 
That  crowd  around,  one  face  I  see  ; 
It  is  the  face  I  dare  not  name, 
The  face  none  ever  name  to  me. 

I  saw  it  first  when  in  the  dance 
Borne,  like  a  falcon,  down  the  hall, 
He  stay'd  to  cure  some  rude  mischance 
My  girlish  deeds  had  caused  to  fall ; 
He  smil'd,  he  danced  with  me,  he  made 
A  thousand  ways  to  soothe  my  pain  ; 
And  sleeplessly  all  night  I  pray'd 
That  I  might  see  that  smile  again. 

I  saw  it  next,  a  thousand  times  ; 
And  every  time  its  kind  smile  near'd  ; 
Oh  !  twice  ten  thousand  glorious  chimes 
My  heart  rang  out,  when  he  appear'd  ; 


What  was  I  then,  that  others'  thought 
Could  alter  so  my  thought  of  him; 
That  I  could  be  by  others  taught 
His  image  from  my  heart  to  dim  ! 

I  saw  it  last,  when  black  and  white 
Shadows  went  struggling  o'er  it  wild  ; 
When  he  regain'd  my  long-lost  sight, 
And  I  with  cold  obeisance  smil'd  ;  — 
I  did  not  see  it  fade  from  life  ; 
My  letters  o'er  his  heart  they  found  ; 
They  told  me  in  death's  last  hard  strife 
His  dying  hands  around  them  wound. 

Although  my  scorn  that  face  did  maim, 
Even  when  its  love  would  not  depart  ; 
Although  my  laughter  smote  its  shame 
And  drave  it  swording  through  his  heart  ; 
Although  its  death-gloom  grasps  my  brain 
With  crushing  unrefus'd  despair  ; 
That  I  may  dream  that  face  again 
God  still  must  find  alone  my  prayer. 


THE    RHAPSODISTS 


FROM,«FESTUS" 

YOUTH,  LOVE,  AND  DEATH 

Lucifer.    And  we  might  trust  these  youths 

and  maidens  fair, 
The  world  was  made  for  nothing  but  love, 

love. 

Now  I  think  it  was  made  most  to  be  burn'd. 
Festus.     The   night   is   glooming  on  us. 

It  is  the  hour 

When  lovers  will  speak  lowly,  for  the  sake 
Of  being  nigh  each  other  ;  and  when  love 
Shoots  up  the  eye,  like  morning  on  the  east, 
Making  amends  for  the  long  northern  night 
They   pass'd,  ere   either  knew   the   other 

lov'd  ; 
The  hour  of  hearts  !     Say  gray-beards  what 

they  please, 

The  heart  of  age  is  like  an  emptied  wine- 
cup  ; 


Its  life   lies   in  a  heel-tap  :  how  can  age 

judge  ? 
'T  were  a  waste  of  time  to  ask  how  they 

wasted  theirs  ; 
But  while  the  blood  is  bright,  breath  sweet, 

skin  smooth, 

And  limbs  all  made  to  minister  delight  ; 
Ere  yet  we  have  shed  our  locks,  like  trees 

their  leaves, 

And  we  stand  staring  bare  into  the  air  ; 
He  is  a  fool  who  is  not  for  love  and  beauty 
It  is  I,  the  young,  to  the  young  speak.     I 

am  of  them, 
And  always  shall  be.     What  are  years  to 

me  ? 
You  traitor  years,  that  fang  the  hands  ye 

have  lick'd, 
Vicelike  ;  henceforth  your  venom-sacs  are 

gone. 
I  have  conquer'd.      Ye  shall  perish  :  yea, 

shall  fall 


PHILIP  JAMES   BAILEY 


J59 


Like    birdlets    beaten   by   some  resistless 

storm 
'Gaiiist  a  dead  wall,  dead.     I  pity  ye,  that 

such 
Mean  things  should  have  rais'd  in  man  or 

hope  or  fear ; 
Those  Titans   of   the   heart   that   fight  at 

heaven, 
And  sleep,  by  fits,  on  fire,  whose  slightest 

stir  's 
An  earthquake.     I  am  bound  and  bless'd 

to  youth. 

None  but  the  brave  and  beautiful  can  love. 
Oh  give  me   to  the   young,  the  fair,  the 

free, 
The  brave,  who  would  breast   a   rushing, 

burning  world 
Which  came  between  him  and  his  heart's 

delight. 
Mad  must  I  be,  and  what 's  the  world  ? 

Like  mad 
For  itself.     And  I  to  myself  am  all  things, 

too. 
If  my   heart  thunder'd   would   the   world 

rock  ?     Well, 
Then  let  the  mad  world  fight  its  shadow 

down. 
Soon  there  may  be  nor  sun  nor  world  nor 

shadow. 
But  thou,  my  blood,  my  bright  red  running 

soul, 

Rejoice  thou  like  a  river  in  thy  rapids. 
Rejoice,  thou  wilt  never  pale  with  age,  nor 

thin  ; 

But  in  thy  full  dark  beauty,  vein  by  vein 
Serpent-wise,  me  encircling,  shalt  to  the  end 
Throb,  bubble,   sparkle,    laugh,   and   leap 

along. 
Make  merry,  heart,  while  the  holidays  shall 

last. 
Better  than  daily  dwine,  break  sharp  with 

life  ; 
Like  a  stag,  sunstruck,  top  thy  bounds  and 

die. 
Heart,  I  could  tear  thee  out,  thou  fool,  thou 

fool, 

And  strip  thee  into  shreds  upon  the  wind. 
What  have  I  done  that  thou  shouldst  maze 

me  thus  ? 
Lucifer.     Let   us   away  ;   we   have   had 

enough  of  hearts. 
Festus.     Oh  for  the  young  heart  like  a 

fountain  playing, 
Flinging  its  bright  fresh  feelings  up  to  the 

skies 


It  loves  and  strives  to  reach  ;  strives,  loves 

in  vain. 

It  is  of  earth,  and  never  meant  for  heaven, 
Let  us  love  both  and  die.     The  sphinx-like 

heart 
Loathes  life  the  moment  that  life's  riddle 

is  read. 

The  knot  of  our  existence  solv'd,  all  things 
Loose-ended  lie,  and  useless.  Life  is  had, 
And  lo  !  we  sigh,  and  say,  can  this  be  all  ? 
It  is  not  what  we  thought  ;  it  is  very  well, 
But  we  want  something  more.  There  is 

but  death. 
And  when  we  have  said  and  seen,  done,  had, 

enjoy'd 
And  suff'er'd,  maybe,  all  we  have  wish'd  or 

fear'd, 
From  fame  to  ruin,  and  from  love  to  loath 

i"g» 
There  can  come   but  one  more   change-— 

try  it  —  death. 

Oh  !  it  is  great  to  feel  that  nought  of  earth, 
Hope,  love,  nor  dread,  nor  care  for  what 's 

to  come, 

Can  check  the  royal  lavishment  of  life  ; 
But,  like  a  streamer  strown  upon  the  wind, 
We  fling  our  souls  to  fate  and  to  the  future. 
For  to  die  young  is  youth's  divinest  gift  ; 
To  pass  from  one  world  fresh  into  another, 
Ere   change  hath  lost   the  charm   of   soft 

regret, 

And  feel  the  immortal  impulse  from  within 
Which  makes  the  coming  life  cry  alway, 

on  ! 
And  follow  it  while  strong,  is  heaven's  last 

mercy. 

There  is  a  fire-fly  in  the  south,  but  shines 
When  on  the  wing.      So  is  't  with   mind. 

When  once 
We  rest,  we  darken.     On  !  saith  God  to  the 

soul, 

As  unto  the  earth  for  ever.     On  it  goes, 
A  rejoicing  native  of  the  infinite, 
As  is  a  bird,  of  air  ;  an  orb,  of  heaven. 

THE   POET 

Festus.  Thanks,  thanks  !  With  the 
Muse  is  always  love  and  light, 

And  self-sworn  loyalty  to  truth.    For  know, 

Poets  are  all  who  love,  who  feel,  great 
truths, 

And  tell  them  :  and  the  truth  of  truths  ia 
love. 

There  was  a  time  —  oh,  I  remember  well ! 


i6o 


THE  RHAPSODISTS 


When,  like  a  sea-shell  with   its   sea-born 

strain, 

My  soul  aye  rang  with  music  of  the  lyre, 
And  my  heart  shed  its  lore  as  leaves  their 

dew  — 

A  honey  dew,  and  throve  on  what  it  shed. 
All   things  I  lov'd  ;    but   song  I  lov'd   in 

chief. 

Imagination  is  the  air  of  mind, 
Judgment  its  earth  and  memory  its  main, 
Passion  its  fire.     I  was  at  home  in  heaven. 
Swiftlike,    I    liv'd   above  ;    once  touching 

earth, 
The  meanest  thing  might  master  me  :  long 

wings 
But  baffled.     Still    and  still   I   harp'd  on 

song.  • 

Oh  !  to  create  within  the  mind  is  bliss, 
And  shaping  forth  the   lofty  thought,    or 

lovely, 
We  seek  not,  need  not  heaven  :  and  when 

the  thought, 
Cloudy  and  shapeless,  first  forms  on  the 

mind, 

Slow  darkening  into  some  gigantic  make, 
How  the  heart  shakes  with  pride  and  fear, 

as  heaven 
Quakes  under    its    own    thunder  ;    or   as 

might, 

Of  old,  the  mortal  mother  of  a  god, 
When  first  she  saw  him  lessening  up  the 

skies. 

And  I  began  the  toil  divine  of  verse, 
Which,  like  a  burning  bush,  doth  guest  a 

god. 
But   this   was    only   wing-flapping  —  not 

flight ; 

The  pawing  of  the  courser  ere  he  win  ; 
Till  by  degrees,  from  wrestling  with  my 

soul, 
I   gather'd    strength    to    keep   the    fleet 

thoughts  fast, 
&nd  made  them  bless  me.     Yes,  there  was 

a  time 
When  tomes  of  ancient  song  held  eye  and 

heart  ; 
Were  the  sole  lore  I  reck'd  of  :  the  great 

bards 
Of  Greece,  of  Rome,  and  mine  own  master 

land, 

And  they  who  in  the  holy  book  are  death- 
less ; 

Men  who  have  vulgariz'd  sublimity, 
And  bought  up  truth  for  the  nations  ;  held 

it  whole  ; 


Men   who  have    forged  gods  —  utter'd  — > 

made  them  pass  : 

Sons  of  the  sons  of  God,  who  in  olden  days 
Did  leave  their  passionless  heaven  for  earth 

and  woman, 

Brought  an  immortal  to  a  mortal  breast, 
And,  rainbowlike  the  sweet  earth  clasping, 

left 

A  bright  precipitate  of  soul,  which  lives 
Ever,  and  through  the  lines  of  sullen  men. 
The  dumb  array  of  ages,  speaks  for  all  ; 
Flashing  by  fits,  like  fire  from  an  enemy's 

front ; 
Whose  thoughts,  like  bars  of  sunshine  in 

shut  rooms, 
Mid   gloom,  all   glory,  win   the    world  to 

light; 
Who  make   their    very   follies   like  their 

souls, 
And  like  the  young  moon  with  a  ragged 


Still  in  their  imperfection  beautiful  ; 
Whose   weaknesses    are    lovely  as    their 

strengths, 
Like  the  white  nebulous  matter  between 

stars, 

Which,  if  not  light,  at  least  is  likest  light  ; 
Men  whom  we  build  our  love  round  like  an 

arch 

Of  triumph,  as  they  pass  us  on  their  way 
To  glory,  and  to  immortality  ; 
Men  whose  great  thoughts  possess  us  like 

a  passion, 
Through  every  limb  and  the  whole  heart  ; 

whose  words 
Haunt  us,  as  eagles   haunt  the   mountain 

air  ; 
Whose  thoughts  command  all  coming  times 

and  minds, 

As   from  a  tower,   a  warden  —  fix  them- 
selves 

Deep  in  the  heart  as  meteor  stones  in  earth, 
Dropp'd   from    some   higher  sphere  :   the 

words  of  gods, 
And  fragments  of  the  undeem'd  tongues  of 

heaven  ; 

Men  who  walk  up  to  fame  as  to  a  friend, 
Or  their  own  house,  which  from  the  wrong- 
ful heir 
They  have  wrested,  from  the  world's  hard 

hand  and  gripe  ; 
Men  who,  like  death,  all  bone  but  all   un« 

arm'd, 
Have  ta'en  the  giant  world  by  the  throat, 

and  thrown  him, 


PHILIP   JAMES    BAILEY 


161 


And   made   him  swear   to    maintain  their 

name  and  fame 

At  peril  of  his  life  ;  who  shed  great  thoughts 
As  easily  as  an  oak  looseneth   its   golden 

leaves 

In  a  kindly  largesse  to  the  soil  it  grew  on  ; 
Whose  names  are  ever  on  the  world's  broad 

tongue, 

Like  sound  upon  the  falling  of  a  force  ; 
Whose  words,  if  wing'd,  are  with  augels' 

wings  ; 

Who  play  upon  the  heart  as  on  a  harp, 
And  make  our  eyes  bright  as  we  speak  of 

them  ; 
Whose  hearts  have  a  look  southwards,  and 

are  open 
To  the  whole  noon  of  nature  ;  these  I  have 

wak'd, 

And  wept  o'er,  night  by  night  ;  oft  ponder- 
ing thus  : 
Homer  is  gone  :  and  where  is  Jove  ?   and 

where 

The  rival  cities  seven  ?     His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god  —  all  that  then  was, 

save  heaven. 

HELEN'S  SONG 

The  rose  is  weeping  for  her  love, 

The  nightingale  ; 
And  he  is  flying  fast  above, 

To  her  he  will  not  fail. 
Already  golden  eve  appears  ; 

He  wings  his  way  along  ; 
Ah  !  look,  he  comes  to  kiss  her  tears, 

And  soothe  her  with  his  song. 

The  moon  in  pearly  light  may  steep 

The  still  blue  air  ; 
The  rose  hath  ceas'd  to  droop  and  weep, 

For  lo  !  her  love  is  there  ; 
He  sings  to  her,  and  o'er  the  trees 

She  hears  his  sweet  notes  swim  ; 
The  world  may  weary  ;  she  but  sees 

Her  love,  and  hears  but  him. 

LUCIFER   AXD   ELISSA 

Elissa.  Nigh  one  year  ago, 

I  watch'd  that  large  bright  star,  much 
where  't  is  now  : 

Time  hath  not  touch'd  its  everlasting  light- 
ning, 

Nor  dimm'd  the  glorious  glances  of  its  eye  ; 

Nor  passion  clouded  it,  nor  any  star 


Eclips'd  ;  it  is  the  leader  still  of  heaven. 
And  I  who  lov'd  it  then  can  love  it  now  ; 
But  am  not  what  I  was,  in  one  degree. 
Calm  star  !  who  was  it  nam'd  thee  Lucifer, 
From  him  who  drew  the  third  of  heaven 

down  with  him  ? 

Oh  !  it  was  but  the  tradition  of  thy  beautj  ! 
For  if  the  sun  hath  one  part,  and  the  moon 

one, 
Thou  hast  the   third  part   of  the  host  cf 

heaven  — 
Which  is  its  power  —  which  power  is  but 

its  beauty  ! 
Lucifer.     It  was  no  tradition,  lady,  but 

of  truth  ! 
Elissa.     I  thought   we    parted    last  to 

meet  no  more. 

Lucifer.     It  was  so,  lady  ;  but  it  is  not  so. 
Elissa.     Am  I  to  leave,  or  thou,  then  ? 
Lucifer.  Neither,  yet. 

Elissa.     And  who  art  thou  that  I  should 

fear  and  serve  ? 
Lucifer.     I  am   the    morning    and    the 

evening  star, 
The  star  thou  lovedst ;  thy  lover  too  ;  as 


once 
I  told  thee  incredulous 


star  and  spirit  I 


A  power,  an  ill  which  doth  outbalance  being. 
Behold  life's  tyrant  evil,  peer  of  good, 
The  great  infortune  of  the  universe. 
Am  I  not  more  than  mortal  in  my  form  ? 
Millions  of   years  have  circled  round  my 

brow, 
Like  worlds  upon  their   centres,  —  still  I 

live, 

And  age  but  presses  with  a  halo's  weight. 
This  single  arm  hath  dash'd  the  light  of 

heaven  ; 
This  one  hand  dragg'd  the    angels  from 

their  thrones :  — 

Am  I  not  worthy  to  have  lov'd  thee,  lady  ? 
Thou  mortal  model  of  all  heavenliness  ! 
Yet   all   these   spoils    have   I   abandon'd, 

cower'd 
My    powers,     my    course    becalm'd,  and 

stoop'd  from  the  high 
Destruction  of  the  skies  for  thee,  and  him 
Who  loving  thee  is  with  thee  lost,  both  lost. 
Thou  hast  but  serv'd  the  purpose  of  the 

fiend  ; 

Art  but  the  gilded  vessel  of  selfish  sin 
Whose  poison  hath  drunken  made  a  soul  to 

death  : 
Thou,  useless  now.    I  come  to  bid  thee  die- 


l62 


THE   RHAPSODISTS 


Elissa.     Wicked,   impure,  tormentor  of 
the  world, 

I  knew  thee  not.    Yet  doubt  not  thou  it  was 

Who  darkenedst  for  a  moment  with  base 
aim 

God  to  evade,  and  shun  in  this  world,  man, 

Love's  heart  ;   with  selfish  end  alone  re- 
deeming 

Me  from  the  evil,  the  death-fright.     Take, 
nathless, 

One  human  soul's  forgiveness,  such  the  sum 

Of  thanks  I  feel  for  heaven's  great  grace 
that  thou 

From  the  overflowings  of  love's  cup  mayst 
quench 

Thy  breast's  broad  burning  desert,  and  fer- 
tilize 

Aught  may  be  in  it,  that  boasts  one  root  of 

good. 
Lucifer.     It  is  doubtless  sad  to  feel  one 

day  our  last. 

Elissa.     I  knew,  forewarn'd,  I  was  dy- 
ing.    God  is  good. 

The  heavens  grow  darker  as  they  purer 
grow, 

And  both,  as  we  approach  them  ;  so  near 
death 

The  soul  grows  darker  and  diviner  hourly. 

Could  I  love  less,  I  should  be  happier  now. 

But  always   't  is   to   that    mad   extreme, 
death 

Alone  appears  the  fitting  end  to  bliss 

Like  that  my  spirit  presseth  for. 

Lucifer.  Thy  death 

Gentle  shall  be  as  e'er  hath  been  thy  life. 

I  '11  hurt  thee  not,  for  once  upon  this  breast, 

Fell,  like  a  snowflake  on  a  fever'd  lip, 

Thy  love.     Thy  soul  shall,  dreamlike,  pass 
from  thee. 

One  instant,   and  thou   wakest  in  heaven 

for  aye. 

Elissa.     Lost,  say'st  thou  in  one  breath, 
and  sav'd  in  heaven. 


I  ever  thought  thee  to  be  more  than  mor- 
tal, 
And  since  thus   mighty,   grant   me  —  and 

thou  mayst 
This   one,   this    only   boon,   as   friend    to 

friend  — 

Bring  him  I  love,  one  moment  ere  I  die  J 
Life,  love,  all  his.  .  .  . 

Lucifer.  Cease  ! 

As  a  wind-flaw,  darting  from  some  rifted 

cloud, 

Seizes  upon  a  water-patch  mid  main, 
And  into  white   wrath  worries  it,  so  my 

mind 

This  petty  controversy  distracts.  He  comes, 

I  say,  but  never  shalt  thou  view  him,  living. 

Elissa.     But  I  will,  will  see  him,  and 

while  I  am  alive. 
I  hear  him.     He  is  come. 

Lucifer.  The  ends  of  things 

Are  urgent.     Still,  to  this  mortuary  deed 
Reluctant,  fix  I  death's  black  seal.     He  's 

here  ! 
Elissa.     I  hear  him  ;  he  is  come  ;  it  is 

he  ;  it  is  he  ! 
Lucifer.      Die  graciously,  as  ever  thou 

hast  liv'd  ; 

Die,  thou  shalt  never  look  upon  him  again. 
Elissa.     My  love  !  haste,  Festus  !     I  am 

dying. 

Lucifer.  Dead ! 

As  ocean  racing  fast  and  fierce  to  reach 
Some  headland,  ere  the  moon  with  madden- 
ing ray 

Forestall  him,  and  rebellious  tides  excite 
To  vain  strife,  nor  of  the  innocent  skiff  that 

thwarts 
His  path,  aught  heeds,  but  with  dispiteous 

foam 
Wrecks  deathful,  I,  made  hasty  by  time's 

end 

Impending,  thus  fill  up  fate's  tragic  form. 
A  word  could  kill  her.     See,  she  hath  gone 

to  heaven. 


A   SONG   OF   FAREWELL 

THE  Spring  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 
The  swallow  o'er  the  sea  ; 
The  bud  will  hang  upon  the  bough, 
The  blossom  on  the  tree  ; 


And  many  a  pleasant  sound  will  rise  to 

greet  her  on  her  way, 
The  voice  of  bird,  and  leaf,  and  stream, 

and  warm  winds  in  their  play  ; 
Ah  !  sweet  the  airs  that  round  her  breathe  J 

and  bountiful  is  she. 


DORA  GREENWELL  —  MACDONALD 


163 


She  bringeth  all  the  things  that  fresh,  and 

sweet,  and  hopeful  be  ; 
She   scatters   promise   on   the   earth  with 

open  hand  and  free, 
But  not  for  me,  my  friends, 
But  not  for  me  ! 

Summer  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 

Low  murmurs  of  the  bee 

Will  rise  through  the  long  sunny  day 

Above  the  flowery  lea  ; 

And  deep  the  dreamy  woods  will  own  the 
slumbrous  spell  she  weaves, 

And   send  a   greeting,    mix'd    with   sighs, 
through  all  their  quivering  leaves. 

Oh,  precious  are  her  glowing  gifts  !  and 
plenteous  is  she, 

She   bringeth    all   the   lovely   things   that 
bright  and  fragrant  be, 

She  scatters  fulness  on  the  Earth  with  lav- 
ish hand  and  free, 
But  not  for  me,  my  friends, 
But  not  for  me  ! 

Autumn  will  come  again,  dear  friends, 
His  spirit-touch  shall  be 
With  gold  upon  the  harvest-field, 
With  crimson  on  the  tree  ; 


He   passeth   o'er   the    silent   woods,   they 
wither  at  his  breath, 

Slow  fading  in  a  still  decay,  a  change  that 
is  not  Death. 

Oh  !  rich  and  liberal,  and  wise,  and  provi- 
dent is  he  ! 

He  taketh  to  his  garner-house  the  things 
that  ripen'd  be, 

He  gathereth  his  store   from  Earth,  and 

silently  — 

And  he  will  gather  me,  my  friends, 
He  will  gather  me  ! 


TO    CHRISTINA   ROSSETTI 

THOU  hast  fill  VI  me  a  golden  cup 
With  a  drink  divine  that  glows, 
With  the  bloom  that  is  flowing  up 
From  the  heart  of  the  folded  rose. 
The  grapes  in  their  amber  glow, 
And  the  strength  of  the  blood-red  wine, 
All  mingle  and  change  and  flow 
In  this  golden  cup  of  thine, 
With  the  scent  of  the  curling  vine, 
With  the  balm  of  the  rose's  breath,  — 
For  the  voice  of  love  is  thine, 
And  thine  is  the  Song  of  Death  ! 


George 


LIGHT 


THOU  art  the  joy  of  age  : 
Thy  sun   is  dear  when  long    the   shadow 

falls. 

Forth  to  its  friendliness  the  old  man  crawls, 
And,  like  the  bird  hung  out  in  his  poor 

cage 

To  gather  song  from  radiance,  in  his  chair 
Sits  by  the  door  ;  and  sitteth  there 
His  soul  within  him,  like  a  child  that  lies 
Half  dreaming,  with  half-open  eyes, 
At  close  of  a  long  afternoon  in  summer  — 
High  ruins  round  him,  ancient  ruins,  where 
The  raven  is  almost  the  only  comer  ; 
Half  dreams,  half  broods,  in  wonderment 
At  thy  celestial  descent, 
Through  rifted  loops  alighting  on  the  gold 
That  waves  its  bloom  in  many  an  airy  rent  : 
So  dreams  the  old  man's  soul,  that  is  not 

old, 
But  sleepy  'mid  the  ruins  that  enfold. 


What     soul-like     changes,     evanescent 

moods, 

Upon  the  face  of  the  still  passive  earth, 
Its  hills,  and  fields,  and  woods, 
Thou  with  thy  seasons  and  thy  hours  art 

ever  calling  forth  ! 
Even  like  a  lord  of  music  bent 
Over  his  instrument, 
Who  gives  to  tears  and   smiles   an  equal 

birth! 

When  clear  as  holiness  the  morning  ray 
Casts    the    rock's   dewy   darkness    at    its 

feet, 
Mottling  with  shadows   all   the   mountain 

gray; 

When,  at  the  hour  of  sovereign  noon, 
Infinite  silent  cataracts  sheet 
Shadowless    through    the   air  of   thunder- 
breeding  June  ; 

And  when  a  yellower  glory  slanting  passes 
'Twixt   longer  shadows   o'er   the  meadow 

grasses ; 


164 


THE  RHAPSODISTS 


When  now  the  nioon  lifts  up  her  shining 

shield, 

High  on  the  peak  of  a  cloud-hill  reveal'd  ; 
Now  crescent,  low,   wandering   sun-dazed 

away, 

Unconscious  of  her  own  star-mingled  ray, 
Her  still  face  seeming  more  to  think  than 

see, 
Makes  the  pale  world  lie  dreaming  dreams 

of  thee  ! 

No  mood  of  mind,  no  melody  of  soul, 
But  lies  within  thy  silent  soft  control. 

Of  operative  single  power, 

And  simple  unity  the  one  emblem, 

Yet  all  the  colors  that  our  passionate  eyes 
devour, 

In  rainbow,  moonbow,  or  in  opal  gem, 

Are  the  melodious  descant  of  divided  thee. 

Lo  thee  in  yellow  sands  !  lo  thee 

In  the  blue  air  and  sea  ! 

In  the  green  corn,  with  scarlet  poppies  lit, 

Thy  half  souls  parted,  patient  thou  dost  sit. 

Lo  thee  in  speechless  glories  of  the  west  ! 

Lo  thee  in  dewdrop's  tiny  breast ! 

Thee  on  the  vast  white  cloud  that  floats 
away, 

Bearing  upon  its  skirt  a  brown  moon-ray  ! 

Regent  of  color,  thou  dost  fling 

Thy  overflowing  skill  on  everything  ! 

The  thousand  hues  and  shades  upon  the 
flowers 

Are  all  the  pastime  of  thy  leisure  hours  ; 

And  all  the  jewelled  ores  in  mines  that  hid- 
den be 

Are  dead  till  touch'd  by  thee. 

WORLD   AND    SOtjL 

THIS  infant  world  has  taken  long  to  make  ! 
Nor  hast  Thou  done  the  making  of  it  yet, 
But  wilt  be  working  on  when  death  has  set 
A  new  mound  in  some  church-yard  for  my 

sake. 

On  flow  the  centuries  without  a  break  ; 
Uprise  the  mountains,  ages  without  let  ; 
The  lichens  suck  the  rock's  breast  —  food 

they  get : 
Years  more  than  past,  the  young  earth  yet 

will  take. 

But  in  the  dumbness  of  the  rolling  time, 
No  veil  of  silence  shall  encompass  me  : 
Thou  wilt  not  once  forget  and  let  me  be  ; 
Rather  wouldstThou  some  old  chaotic  prime 
Invade,  and,  with  a  tenderness  sublime, 
Unfold  a  world,  that  I,  thy  child,  might  see. 


BABY 

WHERE  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and 

spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and 

high? 
A  soft  hand  strok'd  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm  white 

rose  ? 
I    saw    something    better    than    any    one 

knows. 

Whence  that  three-corner'd  smile  of  bliss  ? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear  ? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands  ? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling 

things  ? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you  ? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
God   thought    about    you,   and    so    I   am 
here. 

SONG 

I  DREAM'D  that  I  woke  from  a  dream, 
And  the  house  was  full  of  light  ; 
At  the  window  two  angel  Sorrows 
Held  back  the  curtains  of  night. 

The  door  was  wide,  and  the  house 
Was  full  of  the  morning  wind  ; 
At  the  door  two  armed  warders 
Stood  silent,  with  faces  blind. 


MACDONALD  —  MASSEY 


165 


I  ran  to  the  open  door, 
For  the  wind  of  the  world  was  sweet  ; 
The  warders  with  crossing  weapons 
Turn'd  back  my  issuing  feet. 

I  ran  to  the  shining  windows  — 
There  the  winged  Sorrows  stood  ; 


Silent  they  held  the  curtains, 

And  the  light  fell  through  in  a  flood, 

I  clornb  to  the  highest  window  — 
Ah  !  there,  with  shadow'd  brow, 
Stood  one  lonely  radiant  Sorrow, 
And  that,  my  love,  was  thou. 


HE  is  gone  :  better  so.     We  should  know 

who  stand  under 
Our   banner  :   let '  none   but   the   trusty 

remain  ! 
FOP  there 's  stern  work  at  hand,  and  the 

time  comes  shall  sunder 
The  shell  from  the  pearl,  and  the  chaff 

fiom  the  grain. 
And   the  heart   that   through  danger  and 

death  will  be  dutiful, 
Soul   that  with  Craumer   in   fire  would 

shake  hands, 
With  a   life   like  a  palace-home  built  for 

the  beautiful, 
Freedom  of  all  her  beloved  demands. 

He  is  gone  from  us  !     Yet  shall  we  march 

on  victorious, 
Hearts  burning  like  beacons  —  eyes  fix'd 

on  the  goal  ! 
And  if  we   fall   fighting,  we  fall  like  the 

glorious, 
With  face  to  the  stars,  and  all  heaven 

in  the  soul. 
And  aye  for  the  brave  stir  of  battle  we  '11 

barter 
The  sword  of  life  sheath'd  in  the  peace 

of  the  grave  ; 

And  better  the  fieriest  fate  of  the  martyr, 
Than  live  like  the  coward,  and  die  like 
the  slave  ! 

CHRISTIE'S    PORTRAIT 

YOUR  tiny  picture  makes  me  yearn  ; 

We  are  so  far  apart  ! 
My  darling,  I  can  only  turn 

And  kiss  you  in  my  heart. 
A  thousand  tender  thoughts  a- wing 

Swarm  iu  a  summer  clime, 


And  hover  round  it  murmuring 
Like  bees  at  honey-time. 

Upon  a  little  girl  I  look 

Whose  pureness  makes  me  sad  ; 
I  read  as  in  a  holy  book, 

I  grow  in  secret  glad. 
It  seems  my  darling  comes  to  me 

With  something  I  have  lost 
Over  life's  toss'd  and  troubled  sea, 

On  some  celestial  coast. 

I  think  of  her  when  spirit-bow'd  ; 

A  glory  fills  the  place  ! 
Like  sudden  light  on  swords,  the  proud 

Smile  flashes  in  my  face  : 
And  others  see,  in  passing  by, 

But  cannot  understand 
The  vision  shining  in  mine  eye, 

My  strength  of  heart  and  hand. 

That  grave  content  and  touching  grace 

Bring  tears  into  mine  eyes  ; 
She  makes  my  heart  a  holy  place 

Where  hymns  and  incense  rise. 
Such  calm  her  gentle  spirit  brings 

As,  smiling  overhead, 
White-statued  saints  with  peaceful  wings 

Shadow  the  sleeping  dead. 

Our  Christie  is  no  rosy  Grace 

With  beauty  all  may  see, 
But  I  have  never  felt  a  face 

Grow  half  so  dear  to  me. 
No  curling  hair  about  her  brows, 

Like  many  merry  girls  ; 
Well,  straighter  to  my  heart  it  goes, 

And  round  it  curls  and  curls. 

Meek  as  the  wood  anemone  glints 

To  see  if  heaven  be  blue, 
Is  my  pale  flower  with  her  sweet  tints 

Of  heaven  shining  through. 


i66 


THE  RHAPSODISTS 


She  will  be  poor  and  never  fret, 

Sleep  sound  and  lowly  lie  ; 
Will  live  her  quiet  life,  and  let 

The  great  world-storm  go  by. 

Dear  love  !     God  keep  her  in  his  grasp, 

Meek  maiden,  or  brave  wife, 
Till  his  good  angels  softly  clasp 

Her  closed  book  of  life  ! 
And  this  fair  picture  of  the  sun, 

With  birthday  blessings  given, 
Shall  fade  before  a  glorious  one 

Taken  of  her  in  heaven. 

HIS    BANNER   OVER   ME 

SURROUNDED  by  unnumber'd  foes, 
Against  my  soul  the  battle  goes  ! 


Yet  though  I  weary,  sore  distrest, 
I  know  that  I  shall  reach  my  rest  : 
I  lift  my  tearful  eyes  above,  — 
His  banner  over  me  is  love.  , 

Its  sword  my  spirit  will  not  yield, 
Though  flesh  may  faint  upon  the  field  ; 
He  waves  before  my  fading  sight 
The  branch  of  palm,  —  the  crown  of  light 

I  lift  my  brightening  eyes  above,  — 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 

My  cloud  of  battle-dust  may  dim, 
His  veil  of  splendor  curtain  him  ! 
And  in  the  midnight  of  my  fear 
I  may  not  feel  him  standing  near  ; 

But,  as  I  lift  mine  eyes  above, 

His  banner  over  me  is  love. 


FROM    "A   LIFE-DRAMA" 

FORERUNNERS 

Walter.     I  have  a  strain  of  a  departed 

bard  ; 

One  who  was  born  too  late  into  this  world. 
A  mighty  day  was  past,  and  he  saw  nought 
But  ebbing  sunset  and  the  rising  stars,  — 
Still  o'er  him  rose  those  melancholy  stars  ! 
Unknown  his  childhood,  save  that  he  was 

born 
'Mong    woodland    waters    full    of    silver 

breaks ; 

I  was  to  him  but  Labrador  to  Ind  ; 
His  pearls  were  plentier  than  my  pebble- 
stones. 
He  was  the  sun,  I  was  that  squab  —  the 

earth, 

And  bask'd  me  in  his  light  until  he  drew 
Flowers  from  my  barren  sides.     Oh  !  he 

was  rich, 

And  I  rejoiced  upon  his  shore  of  pearls, 
A  weak  enamor'd  sea.     Once  he  did  say, 
"  My  Friend  !  a  Poet  must  ere  long  arise, 
And  with  a  regal  song  sun-crown  this  age, 
Asa  saint's  head  is  with  a  halo  crown'd  ;  — 
One,  who  shall  hallow  Poetry^to  God 
And  to  its  own  high  use,  for  .Poetry  is 
The  grandest  chariot  wherein  king-thoughts 
ride  ; — "1 


One,  who  shall  fervent  grasp  the  sword  of 

song, 
As  a  stern  swordsman  grasps  his  keenest 

blade, 

To  find  the  quickest  passage  to  the  heart. 
A  mighty  Poet,  whom  this  age  shall  choose 
To  be  its  spokesman  to  all  coming  times. 
In  the  ripe  full-blown  season  of  his  soul, 
He  shall  go  forward  in  his  spirit's  strength, 
And  grapple  with  the  questions  of  all  time, 
And  wring  from  them  their  meanings.     As 

King  Saul 
Call'd    up   the    buried    prophet   from   his 

grave 

To  speak  his  doom,  so  shall  this  Poet-king 
Call  up  the  dead  Past  from  its  awful  grave 
To  tell  him  of  our  future.     As  the  air 
Doth  sphere  the  world,  so  shall  his  heart 

of  love  — 

Loving  mankind,  not  peoples.     As  the  lake 
Reflects  the  flower,  tree,  rock,  and  bending 

heaven, 

Shall  he  reflect  our  great  humanity  ; 
And  as  the  young  Spring  breathes  with  liv- 
ing breath 

On  a  dead  branch,  till  it  sprouts  fragrantly 
Green  leaves  and  sunny  flowers,  shall  he 

breathe  life 
Through  every  theme  he  touch,  making  all 

•  Beauty 

And  Poetry  for  ever  like  the  stars." 
His  words  set  me  on  fire  ;  I  cried  aloud, 


ALEXANDER   SMITH 


167 


"  Gods !   what   a   portion   to   forerun   this 

Soul !  " 
He  grasp' d  my  hand,  —  I  look'd  upon  his 

face, — 
A  thought   struck  all  the  blood  into  his 

cheeks, 
Like  a  strong  buffet.     His  great  flashing 

eyes 
Buru'd  on  mine  own.     He  said,  "A  grim 

old  king, 

Whose  blood  leap'd  madly  when  the  trum- 
pets bray'd 

To  joyous  battle  'mid  a  storm  of  steeds, 
Won  a  rich  kingdom  on  a  battle-day  ; 
But  in  the  sunset  he  was  ebbing  fast, 
Ring'd   by   his   weeping   lords.      His   left 

hand  held 
His  white  steed,  to  the  belly  splash'd  with 

blood, 

That  seem'd  to  mourn  him  with  its  droop- 
ing head  ; 
His  right,  his  broken  brand  ;   and  in  his 

ear 

His  old  victorious  banners  flap  the  winds. 
He  called  his  faithful  herald  to  his  side,  — 
'  Go  !  tell  the  dead  I  come  ! '   With  a  proud 

smile, 

The  warrior  with  a  stab  let  out  his  soul, 
Which  fled  and  shriek' d  through   all  the 

other  world, 
'  Ye   dead  !      My  master  comes  ! '      And 

there  was  pause 
Till  the  great  shade  should  enter.     Like 

that  herald, 

Walter,  I  'd  rush  across  this  waiting  world 
And  cry,  '  He  comes  !  ' '      Lady,  wilt  hear 

the  song?  \_Sinys. 

A   MINOR   POET 

He  sat  one  winter  'neath  a  linden  tree 

In  my  bare  orchard  ;    "See,  my  friend," 

he  said, 
"  The  stars  among  the  branches  hang  like 

fruit, 
So,  hopes  were  thick  within  me.      When 

I  'm  gone 

The  world  will  like  a  valuator  sit 
Upon  my  soul,  and  say,  '  I  was  a  cloud 
That  caught  its  glory  from  a  sunken  sun, 
And  gradual  burn'd  into  its  native  gray.' " 
On  an  October  eve,  't  was  his  last  wish 
To  see  again  the  mists  and  golden  woods  ; 
Upon  his  death-bed  he  was  lifted  up, 
The  sluinb'rous  sun  within  the  lazy  west 


With  their  last  gladness  fill'd   his  dying 

eyes. 

No  sooner  was  he  hence  than  critic- worms 
Were  swarming  on  the  body  of  his  fame, 
And  thus  they  judged  the  dead  :     "  This 

Poet  was 

An  April  tree  whose  vermeil-loaded  boughs 
Promis'd  to  Autumn  apples  juiced  and  red. 
But  never  came  to  fruit."     "  He  is  to  us 
But  a  rich  odor,  —  a  faint  music-swell." 
"  Poet  he  was  not  in  the  larger  sense  ; 
He  could  write  pearls,  but  he  could  never 

write 

A  Poem  round  and  perfect  as  a  star." 
"  Politic,  i'  faith.     His  most  judicious  act 
Was  dying  when  he  did  ;  the  next  five  years 
Had   fiuger'd   all  the   fine  dust   from  his 

wings, 
And  left  him  poor  as  we.    He  died  —  't  was 

shrewd  ! 
And  came  with  all  his  youth  and  unblown 

hopes 
On  the  world's  heart,  and  touch'd  it  into 

tears." 


SEA-MARGE 

The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bride- 

groom  sea 

Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 
Retires  a  space,  to  see  how  fair  she  looks, 
Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.     All  is 

fair  — 
All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun  !     Yet  more  I 

love 

Than  this,  the  shrinking   day  that   some- 
times comes 
In  Winter's  front,  so  fair  'mong  its  dark 

peers, 

It  seems  a  straggler  from  the  files  of  June, 
Which  in  its  wanderings  had  lost  its  wits, 
And  half  its  beauty  ;  and,  when  it  return'd, 
Finding  its  old  companions  gone  away, 
It  join'd  November's  troop,  then  marching 

past  ; 
And  so  the  frail  thing  comes,  and  greets 

the  world 
With  a   thin  crazy  smile,  then   bursts   in 

tears, 

And  all  the  while  it  holds  within  its  hand 
A  few  half-wither'd  flowers.     I  love  and 

pity  it ! 


i68 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


BEAUTY 

BEAUTY  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air, 
Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 
As  ere  the  Iliad's  music  was  out-roll'd  ; 
The  roses  of  the  Spring  are  ever  fair, 
'Mong  branches  green  still  ring-doves  coo 

and  pair, 

And  the  deep  sea  still  foams  its  music  old. 
So,  if  we  are  at  all  divinely  soul'd, 
This  beauty  will  unloose  our  bonds  of  care. 
*T  is  pleasant,  when  blue  skies  are  o'er  us 

bending 

Within  old  starry-gated  Poesy, 
To  meet  a  soul  set  to  no  worldly  tune, 
Like  thine,  sweet  Friend  !     Oh,  dearer  this 

to  me 

Than  are  the  dewy  trees,  the  sun,  the  moon, 
Or  noble  music  with  a  golden  ending. 

TO  

THE  broken  moon  lay  in  the  autumn  sky, 

And  I  lay  at  thy  feet  ; 
You  bent  above  me  ;  in  the  silence  I 

Could  hear  my  wild  heart  beat. 

I  spoke  ;  my  soul  was  full  of  trembling  fears 
At  what  my  words  would  bring  : 

You  rais'd  your  face,  your  eyes  were  full 

of  tears, 
As  the  sweet  eyes  of  Spring. 

You  kiss'd  me  then,  I  worshipp'd  at  thy 

feet 

Upon  the  shadowy  sod. 
Oh,  fool,  I  lov'd  thee  !  lov'd  thee,  lovely 

cheat ! 
Better  than  Fame  or  God. 


My  soul  leap'd  up  beneath  thy  timid  kiss  ; 

What  then  to  me  were  groans, 
Or  pain,  or  death  ?     Earth  was  a  round  of 
bliss, 

I  seem'd  to  walk  on  thrones. 

And  you  were  with  me  'mong  the  rushing 

wheels, 

'Mid  Trade's  tumultuous  jars  ; 
And  where  to  awe-struck  wilds  the  Night 

reveals 
Her  hollow  gulfs  of  stars. 

Before  your  window,  as  before  a  shrine, 
I  've  knelt  'mong  dew-soak'd  flowers, 

While  distant  music-bells,  with  voices  fine, 
Measur'd  the  midnight  hours. 

There  came  a  fearful  moment :  I  was  pale, 

You  wept,  and  never  spoke, 
But  clung  around  me  as  the  woodbine  frail 

Clings,  pleading,  round  an  oak. 

Upon  my  wrong  I  steadied  up  my  soul, 

And  flung  thee  from  myself  ; 
I  spurn'd  thy  love  as  't  were  a  rich  man's 
dole,  — 

It  was  my  only  wealth. 

I  spurn'd  thee  !     I,  who  lov'd  thee,  could 
have  died, 

That  hop'd  to  call  thee  "  wife," 
And  bear  thee,  gently-smiling  at  my  side, 

Through  all  the  shocks  of  life  ! 

Too  late,  thy  fatal  beauty  and  thy  tears, 
Thy  vows,  thy  passionate  breath  ; 

I  '11  meet  thee  not  in  Life,  nor  in  the  spheres 
Made  visible  by  Death. 


EARLY   HYMNODY 

(See  also :  S.  F.  ADAMS,  ALFORD,  E.  B.  BROWNING,  H.  COLERIDGE,  DE  VERE,  Fox, 

MARTINEAU,  NEWMAN) 


AT   HOME   IN    HEAVEN 

"  FOREVER  with  the  Lord  1 " 

Amen,  so  let  it  be  ; 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 
'Tis  immortality. 


Here  in  the  body  pent, 

Absent  from  him  I  roam, 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 


MONTGOMERY  —  ELLIOTT 


169 


My  Father's  house  on  high, 

Home  of  my  soul,  how  near 
At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear  ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 

To  reach  the  land  I  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above. 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 

And  all  my  prospect  flies  ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  dispart, 
The  winds  and  waters  cease, 


While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladden'd  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace. 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 

Along  the  hallow'd  ground, 
I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 

At  noon  and  midnight  hour. 
The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 

Earth's  Babel-tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  he, 
Remember 'd  or  forgot, 
The  Lord,  is  never  far  from  me, 
Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


Cjjariotte  <CHiott 


JUST  AS  I  AM 


JUST  as  I  am,  without  one  plea 
But  that  thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  thou  bid'st  me  come  to  thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  and  waiting  not 
To  rid  my  soul  of  one  dark  blot, 
To  thee,  whose  blood  can  cleanse  each  spot, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  I 

Just  as  I  am,  though  toss'd  about, 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
Fightings  and  fears  within,  without, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  1 

Just  as  I  am,  poor,  wretched,  blind  ; 
Sight,  riches,  healing  of  the  mind, 
Yea,  all  I  need,  in  thee  to  find, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  I  am,  thou  wilt  receive, 

Wilt  welcome,  pardon,  cleanse,  relieve  ; 

Because  thy  promise  I  believe, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 

Just  as  1  am  —  thy  love  unknown 
Has  broken  every  barrier  down  ; 
Now  to  be  thine,  yea,  thine  alone, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 


Just  as  I  am,  of  that  free  love, 

The  breadth,  length,  depth,  and  height  to 

prove, 
Here  for  a  season,  then  above, 

O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come  ! 


LET  ME  BE  WITH   THEE 

LET  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 

My  Saviour,  my  eternal  rest  ! 
Then  only  will  this  longing  heart 

Be  fully  and  forever  blest. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
Thy  unveil 'd  glory  to  behold  ; 

Then  only  will  this  wandering  heart 
Cease  to  be  treacherous,  faithless,  cold. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art, 
Where  spotless  saints  thy  name  adore  ; 

Then  only  will  this  sinful  heart 
Be  evil  and  defil'd  no  more. 

Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art; 

Where    none    can    die,  where   none  re< 

move  ; 
There  neither  death  nor  life  will  part 

Me  from  thy  presence  and  thy  love  t 


170 


EARLY  HYMNODY 


PRAYER   TO    THE   TRINITY 

LEAD  us,  heavenly  Father,  lead  us 

O'er  the  world's  tempestuous  sea  ; 
Guard  us,  guide  us,  keep  us,  feed  us, 
For  we  have  no  help  but  thee  ; 
Yet  possessing 
Every  blessing, 
If  our  God  our  Father  be. 

Saviour,  breathe  forgiveness  o'er  us  ; 
Al]  our  weakness  thou  dost  know  ; 


Thou  didst  tread  this  earth  before  us, 
Thou  didst  feel  its  keenest  woe  j 
Lone  and  dreary, 
Faint  and  weary, 
Through  the  desert  thou  didst  go. 

Spirit  of  our  God,  descending. 

Fill  our  hearts  with  heavenly  joy  , 
Love  with  every  passion  blending, 
Pleasure  that  can  never  cloy  : 
Thus  provided, 
Pardon'd,  guided, 
Nothing  can  our  peace  destroy. 


Ipenrp 


HYMN   FOR  THE   SIXTEENTH 
SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY 

WHEN  our  heads  are  bow'd  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o'erflow, 
When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls — 
When  our  final  doom  is  near, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  I 

Thou  hast  bow'd  the  dying  head, 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed, 
Thou  hast  fill'd  a  mortal  bier  • 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin, 
When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  I 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known  ; 
Though  the  sins  were  not  Thine  own, 
Thou  hast  deign'd  their  load  to  bear  : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  1 


BURIAL  HYMN 

BROTHER,  thou  art  gone  before  us, 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wip'd  from  every  eye, 

And  sorrow  is  unknown. 
From  the  burden  of  the  flesh, 

And  from  care  and  sin  releas'd, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  toilsome  way  thou  'st  travell'd  o'er, 

And  hast  borne  the  heavy  load  ; 
But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  wandering  feet 

To  reach  his  bless'd  abode  ; 
Thou  'rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus, 

On  his  Father's  faithful  breast, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now, 

Nor  can  doubt  thy  faith  assail ; 
Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 

And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail ; 
And  there  thou  'rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 

Whom  on  earth  thou  lovest  best, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

•' Earth  to  earth,"  and  "dust  to  dust," 
Thus  the  solemn  priest  hath  said  ; 

So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 
And  seal  thy  narrow  bed  ; 


MILMAN  — KEBLE 


171 


But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 

Among  the  faithful  blest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us 

Whom  thou  now  hast  left  behind, 
May  we,  untainted  by  the  world, 

As  sure  a  welcome  find  ; 
May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace, 

To  be  a  glorious,  happy  guest, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 

And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

RIDE  ON  IN  MAJESTY 

RIDE  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  ! 
In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die  ; 


O  Christ,  thy  triumphs  now  begin 
O'er  captive  death  and  conquer'd  sin  ! 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  I 

The  winged  armies  of  the  sky 

Look  down  with  sad  and  wondering  eyes 

To  see  the  approaching  sacrifice. 

Ride  on  !  ride  oa  in  majesty  ! 
The  last  and  fiercest  strife  is  nigh  ; 
The  Father  on  his  sapphire  throne 
Expects  his  own  anointed  Son. 

Ride  on  1  ride  on  in  majesty  1 
In  lowly  pomp  ride  on  to  die  ; 
Bow  thy  meek  head  to  mortal  pain, 
Then  take,  O  God,  thy  power,  aiid  reign  ! 


WHO  RUNS  MAY  READ 

THERE  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read, 
Which  heavenly  truth  imparts, 

And  all  the  lore  its  scholars  need, 
Pure  eyes  and  Christian  hearts. 

The  works  of  God  above,  below, 

Within  us  and  around, 
Are  pages  in  that  book,  to  show 

How  God  himself  is  found. 

The  glorious  sky,  embracing  all, 

Is  like  the  Maker's  love, 
Wherewith  encompass'd,  great  and  small 

In  peace  and  order  move. 

The  moon  above,  the  Church  below, 

A  wondrous  race  they  run, 
But  all  their  radiance,  all  their  glow, 

Each  borrows  of  its  sun, 

The  Saviour  lends  the  light  and  heat 

That  crowns  his  holy  hill  ; 
The  saints,  like  stars,  around  his  seat, 

Perform  their  courses  still. 

The  saints  above  are  stars  in  heaven  — 
What  are  the  saints  on  earth  ? 

Like  trees  they  stand  whom  God  has  given, 
Our  Eden's  happy  birth. 


Faith  is  their  fix'd  unswerving  root, 
Hope  their  unfading  flower, 

Fair  deeds  of  charity  their  fruit, 
The  glory  of  their  bower. 

The  dew  of  heaven  is  like  thy  grace. 

It  steals  in  silence  down  ; 
But  where  it  lights,  the  favor'd  place 

By  richest  fruits  is  known. 

One  Name,  above  all  glorious  names, 
With  its  ten  thousand  tongues 

The  everlasting  sea  proclaims, 
Echoing  angelic  songs. 

The  raging  fire,  the  roaring  wind, 
Thy  boundless  power  display  : 

But  in  the  gentler  breeze  we  find 
Thy  spirit's  viewless  way. 

Two  worlds  are  ours  :  't  is  only  sin 

Forbids  us  to  descry 
The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  within, 

Plain  as  the  sea  and  sky. 

Thou,  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 
And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 

Give  me  a  heart  to  find  out  thee, 
And  read  thee  everywhere. 


172 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


SEED   TIME  HYMN 

LORD,  in  thy  name  thy  servants  plead, 

And  thou  hast  sworn  to  hear  ; 
Thine  is  the  harvest,  thine  the  seed, 

The  fresh  and  fading  year  : 

Our  hope,  when  autumn  winds  blew  wild, 

We  trusted,  Lord,  with  thee  ; 
And  still,  now  spring  has  on  us  smil'd, 

We  wait  on  thy  decree. 

The  former  and  the  latter  rain, 

The  summer  sun  and  air, 
The  green  ear,  and  the  golden  grain, 

All  thine,  are  ours  by  prayer. 

Thine  too  by  right,  and  ours  by  grace, 

The  wondrous  growth  unseen, 
The  hopes  that  soothe,  the  fears  that  brace, 

The  love  that  shines  serene. 

So  grant  the  precious  things  brought  forth 

By  sun  and  moon  below, 
That  thee  in  thy  new  heaven  and  earth 

We  never  may  forego. 


HOLY   MATRIMONY 

THE  voice  that  breath'd  o'er  Eden, 
That  earliest  wedding-day, 

The  primal  marriage  blessing, 
It  hath  not  pass'd  away. 


Still  in  the  pure  espousal 

Of  Christian  man  and  maid, 
The  holy  Three  are  with  us, 

The  threefold  grace  is  said. 

For  dower  of  blessed  children, 
For  love  and  faith's  sweet  sake, 

For  high  mysterious  union, 

Which  nought  on  earth  may  break. 

Be  present,  awful  Father, 

To  give  away  this  bride, 
As  Eve  thou  gav'st  to  Adam 

Out  of  his  own  pierced  side  : 

Be  present,  Son  of  Mary, 

To  join  their  loving  hands, 
As  thou  didst  bind  two  natures 

In  thine  eternal  bands  : 

Be  present,  Holiest  Spirit, 

To  bless  them  as  they  kneel, 
As  thou  for  Christ,  the  Bridegroom, 

The  heavenly  Spouse  dost  seal. 

Oh,  spread  thy  pure  wing  o'er  them, 

Let  no  ill  power  find  place, 
When  onward  to  thine  altar 

The  hallow'd  path  they  trace, 

To  cast  their  crowns  before  thee 

In  perfect  sacrifice, 
Till  to  the  home  of  gladness 

With  Christ's  own  Bride  they  rise.  AMEN, 


Motoring 


FROM   THE   RECESSES 

FROM  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit 

My   humble  prayer  ascends  :  O   Father  ! 

hear  it. 

Upsoaring  on  the  wings  of  fear  and  meek- 
ness, 

Forgive  its  weakness. 

I  know,  I   feel,  how  mean  and  how  un- 
worthy 

The  trembling  sacrifice  I  pour  before  thee  ; 
What  can  I  offer  in  thy  presence  holy, 
But  sin  and  folly  ? 


For  in  thy  sight,  who  every  bosom  viewest, 
Cold  are  our  warmest  vows  and  vain  our 

truest  ; 
Thoughts  of  a  hurrying  hour  ;  our  lips  re> 

peat  them, 

Our  hearts  forget  them. 

We  see  thy  hand  —  it  leads  us,  it  supports 

us  ; 
We   hear   thy  voice  —  it   counsels  and   it 

courts  us  ; 
And  then  we  turn  away  —  and    still   thy 

kindness 

Pardons  our  blindness, 


BOWRING  — LYTE 


173 


And  stili  thy  rain  descends,  thy  sun  is 
glowing, 

Fruits  ripen  round,  flowers  are  beneath  us 
blowing, 

And,  as  if  man  were  some  deserving  crea- 
ture, 

Joys  cover  nature. 

Oh  how  long-suffering,  Lord  !  but  thou 
delightest 

To  win  with  love  the  wandering  ;  thou  in- 
vftest 

By  smiles  of  mercy,  not  by  frowns  or  ter- 
rors, 

Man  from  his  errors. 

Who  can  resist  thy  gentle  call,  appealing 
To  every  generous  thought   and   grateful 

feeling  ? 
That  voice  paternal  whispering,  watching 

ever, 

My  bosom  ?  —  never. 

Father  and  Saviour !  plant  within  that  bosom 
These  seeds  of   holiness  ;    and   bid   them 

blossom 

In  fragrance  and  in  beauty  bright  and  ver- 
nal, 

And  spring  eternal. 

Then  place  them  in  those  everlasting  gar- 
dens 

Where  angels  walk,  and  seraphs  are  the 
wardens ; 


Where  every  flower  that  creeps  through 
death's  dark  portal 
Becomes  immortal. 


WHAT  OF  THE  NIGHT? 

WATCHMAN,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

What  its  signs  of  promise  are  ! 
Traveller,  o'er  yon  mountain's  height 

See  that  glory-beaming  star  ! 
Watchman,  doth  its  beauteous  ray 

Aught  of  hope  or  joy  foretell  ? 
Traveller,  yes  !  it  brings  the  day, 

Promis'd  day  of  Israel. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night : 

Higher  yet  that  star  ascends  ! 
Traveller,  blessedness  and  light, 

Peace  and  truth,  its  course  portends 
Watchman,  will  its  beams  alone 

Gild  the  spot  that  gave  them  birth  ? 
Traveller,  ages  are  its  own, 

And  it  bursts  o'er  all  the  earth  ! 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

For  the  morning  seems  to  dawn. 
Traveller,  darkness  takes  its  flight, 

Doubt  and  terror  are  withdrawn. 
Watchman,  let  thy  wand'rings  cease  ; 

Hie  thee  to  thy  quiet  home. 
Traveller,  lo  !  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Lo  !  the  Son  of  God  is  come. 


f  ranti£  Uptc 


ABIDE  WITH  ME 


ABIDE  with  me  !  Fast  falls  the  eventide  ; 
The    darkness    deepens  :    Lord,    with  me 

abide  ! 

When  other  helpers  fail,  and  comforts  flee, 
Help  of  the  helpless,  O  abide  with  me  ! 

Swift  to  its  close  ebbs  out  life's  little  day  ; 
Earth's  joys   grow  dim  ;   its  glories    pass 

away  : 

Change  and  decay  in  all  around  I  see  ; 
O  thou,  who  changest  not,  abide  with  me  ! 

Not  a  brief  glance  I  beg,  a  passing  word, 
But  as  thou  dwell'st  with  thy  disciples,  Lord, 


Familiar,  condescending,  patient,  free,  — 
Come,  not  to  sojourn,  but  abide,  with  me  ! 

Come  not  in  terrors,  as  the  King  of  kings  ; 
But  kind  and  good,   with  healing   in  thy 

wings  : 

Tears  for  all  woes,  a  heart  for  every  plea  ; 
Come,   Friend  of   sinners,  and   thus   bide 

with  me  ! 

Thou   on  my   head   in   early  youth   didst 

smile, 
And,    though    rebellious      and      perverse 

meanwhile, 

Thou  hast  not  left  me,  oft  as  I  left  thee  : 
On  to  the  close,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 


174 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


I  need  thy  presence  every  passing  hour. 
What  but  thy  grace  can  foil  the  Tempter's 

power  ? 
Who  like  thyself  my  guide  and  stay  can 

be? 
Through  cloud  and  sunshine,  O  abide  with 

me  ! 

I  fear  no  foe  with  thee.  at  hand  to  bless  : 
Ills  have  no  weight,  and  tears  no  bitterness. 
Where  is  death's  sting,  where,  grave,  thy 

victory  ? 
I  triumph  still,  if  thou  abide  with  me. 

Hold  thou  thy  cross  before  my  closing  eyes  ; 
Shine  through  the  gloom,  and  point  me  to 

the  skies  : 
Heaven's  morning  breaks,  and  earth's  vain 

shadows  flee  : 
In  life  and  death,  O  Lord,  abide  with  me  ! 

"LO,  WE   HAVE    LEFT   ALL" 

JESUS,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave,  and  follow  thee  ; 
Destitute,  despis'd,  forsaken, 

Thou,  from  hence,  my  all  shalt  be. 
Perish  every  fond  ambition, 

All  I  've  sought  and  hop'd  and  known, 
Yet  how  rich  is  my  condition, 

God  and  heaven  are  still  my  own  ! 

Let  the  world  despise  and  leave  me, 

They  have  left  my  Saviour,  too  ; 
Human  hearts  and  looks  deceive  me  ; 

Thou  art  not,  like  man,  untrue  ; 
And,  while  thou  shalt  smile  upon  me, 

God  of  wisdom,  love,  and  might, 
Foes  may  hate  and  friends  may  shun  me  : 

Show  thy  face,  and  all  is  bright. 

Go,  then,  earthly  fame  and  treasure  ! 

Come,  disaster,  scorn,  and  pain  ! 
In  thy  service  pain  is  pleasure  ; 

With  thy  favor  loss  is  gain. 
I  have  call'd  thee  Abba,  Father  ; 

I  have  stay'd  my  heart  on  thee  .• 
Storms  may  howl,  and  clouds  may  gather, 

All  must  work  for  good  to  me. 

Man  may  trouble  and  distress  me, 
'T  will  but  drive  me  to  thy  breast ; 


Life  with  trials  hard  may  press  me, 
Heaven  will  bring  me  sweeter  rest. 

Oh,  't  is  not  in  grief  to  harm  me, 
While  thy  love  is  left  to  me  ! 

Oh,  't  were  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 
Were  that  joy  unmix'd  with  thee ! 

Take,  my  soul,  thy  full  salvation, 

Rise  o'er  sin  and  fear  and  care  ; 
Joy  to  find  in  every  station 

Something  still  to  do  or  bear. 
Think  what  Spirit  dwells  within  thee  j 

What  a  Father's  smile  is  thine  ; 
What  a  Saviour  died  to  win  thee  : 

Child  of  heaven,  shouldst  thou  repine  ? 

Haste  then  on  from  grace  to  glory, 

Arm'd  by  faith,  and  wing'd  by  prayer  ; 
Heaven's  eternal  day  's  before  thee, 

God's  own  hand  shall  guide  thee  there. 
Soon  shall  close  thy  earthly  mission, 

Swift  shall  pass  thy  pilgrim  days, 
Hope  soon  change  to  glad  fruition, 

Faith  to  sight,  and  prayer  to  praise  ! 


THE   SECRET   PLACE 

THERE  is  a  safe  and  secret  place 

Beneath  the  wings  divine, 
Reserv'd  for  all  the  heirs  of  grace  : 

Ob,  be  that  refuge  mine  ! 

The  least  and  feeblest  there  may  bide 

Uninjtir'd  and  unaw'd  ; 
While  thousands  fall  on  every  side, 

He  rests  secure  in  God. 

The  angels  watch  him  on  his  way, 
And  aid  with  friendly  arm  ; 

And  Satan,  roaring  for  his  prey, 
May  hate,  but  cannot  harm. 

He  feeds  in  pastures  large  and  fair 

Of  love  and  truth  divine  ; 
O  child  of  God,  O  glory's  heir, 

How  rich  a  lot  is  thine  ! 

A  hand  almighty  to  defend, 

An  ear  for  every  call, 
An  honor'd  life,  a  peaceful  end, 

And  heaven  to  crown  it  all  1 


WILBERFORCE  —  C.   WORDSWORTH  —  BONAR 


U^iifoerforce 


JUST   FOR   TO-DAY 

LORD,  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs 

I  do  not  pray  ; 
Keep  me  from  any  stain  of  sin 

Just  for  to-day  : 
Let  me  both  diligently  work 

And  duly  pray  ; 
Let  me  be  kind  in  word  and  deed 

Just  for  to-day, 
Let  me  be  slow  to  do  my  will  — 

Prompt  to  obey  : 


Help  me  to  sacrifice  myself 

Just  for  to-day. 
Let  me  no  wrong  or  idle  word 

Unthinking  say  — 
Set  thou  thy  seal  upon  my  lips, 

Just  for  to-day. 
So  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs 

I  do  not  pray, 
But  keep  me,  guide  me,  hold  me,  Lord, 

Just  for  to-day. 


GIVING  TO  GOD 

O  LORD  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea  ! 
To  thee  all  praise  and  glory  be  ; 
How  shall  we  show  our  love  to  thee, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all  ? 

The  golden  sunshine,  vernal  air, 
Sweet  flowers  and  fruit  thy  love  declare  ; 
When  harvests  ripen,  thou  art  there, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 

For  peaceful  homes  and  healthful  days, 
For  all  the  blessings  earth  displays, 
We  owe  thee  thankfulness  and  praise, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 


For  souls  redeem'd,  for  sins  forgiven, 
For  means  of  grace  and  hopes  of  heaven, 
What  can  to  thee,  O  Lord  !  be  given, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all  ? 

We  lose  what  on  ourselves  we  spend, 
We  have,  as  treasures  without  end, 
Whatever,  Lord,  to  thee  we  lend, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 

Whatever,  Lord,  we  lend  to  thee, 
Repaid  a  thousand-fold  will  be  ; 
Then  gladly  will  we  give  to  thee, 
Who  givest  all  —  who  givest  all. 


LOST  BUT  FOUND 

I  WAS  a  wandering  sheep, 

I  did  not  love  the  fold  ; 
I  did  not  love  my  Shepherd's  voice, 

I  would  not  be  controll'd. 

I  was  a  wayward  child, 

I  did  not  love  my  home, 
I  did  not  love  my  Father's  voice, 

I  lov'd  afar  to  roam. 

The  Shepherd  sought  his  sheep  ; 
The  Father  sought  his  child  ; 
They  follow'd  me  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
O'er  deserts  waste  and  wild. 


They  found  me  nigh  to  death, 
Famish'd,  and  faint,  and  lone  ; 
They  bound  me  with  the  bands  of  love  ; 
They  sav'd  the  wandering  one. 

They  spoke  in  tender  love, 
They  rais'd  my  drooping  head  ; 

They  gently  clos'd  my  bleeding  wounds, 
My  fainting  soul  they  fed. 
They  wash'd  my  filth  away, 
They  made  me  clean  and  fair  ; 

Thej-  brought  me  to  my  home  in  peace, 
The  long-sought  wanderer. 


i76 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


Jesus  ray  Shepherd  is, 

'T  was  he  that  lov'd  my  soul  ; 

'T  was  he  that  wash'd  me  in  his  blood, 
'T  was  he  that  made  me  whole  ; 
'T  was  he  that  sought  the  lost, 
That  found  the  wandering  sheep  ; 

'T  was  he  that  brought  me  to  the  fold, 
'Tis  he  that  still  doth  keep. 

I  was  a  wandering  sheep, 

I  would  not  be  control! 'd  ; 
But  now  I  love  my  Shepherd's  voice, 

I  love,  I  love  the  fold. 

I  was  a  wayward  child, 

I  once  preferr'd  to  roam  ; 
But  now  I  love  my  Father's  voice, 

I  love,  I  love  his  home. 


THE  VOICE  FROM  GALILEE 

I  HEARD  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

Come  unto  me  and  rest  ; 
Lay  down,  thou  weary  one,  lay  down 

Thy  head  upon  my  breast. 
I  came  to  Jesus  as  I  was, 

Weary,  and  worn,  and  sad, 
I  found  in  him  a  resting-place, 

And  he  has  made  me  glad. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

Behold,  I  freely  give 
The  living  water,  —  thirsty  one, 

Stoop  down,  and  drink,  and  live. 
I  came  to  Jesus  and  I  drank 

Of  that  life-giving  stream  ; 
My  thirst  was  queuch'd,  my  soul  reviv'd, 

And  now  I  live  in  him. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say, 

I  am  this  dark  world's  light, 
Look  unto  me,  thy  morn  shall  rise 

And  all  thy  day  be  bright. 
I  look'd  to  Jesus,  and  I  found 

In  him  my  Star,  my  Sun  ; 
And  in  that  light  of  life  I'  11  walk 

Till  travelling  days  are  done. 


THY   WAY,   NOT   MINE 

THY  way,  not  mine,  O  Lord, 

However  dark  it  be  ! 
Lead  me  by  thine  own  hand, 

Choose  out  the  path  for  me. 


Smooth  let  it  be,  or  rough, 

It  will  be  still  the  best  ; 
Winding  or  straight,  it  matters  not, 

Right  onward  to  thy  rest. 

I  dare  not  choose  my  lot  ; 

I  would  not,  if  I  might ; 
Choose  thou  for  me,  my  God  ; 

So  shall  I  walk  aright. 

The  kingdom  that  I  seek 

Is  thine  ;  so  let  the  way 
That  leads  to  it  be  thine, 

Else  I  must  surely  stray. 

Take  thou  my  cup,  and  it 

With  joy  or  sorrow  fill, 
As  best  to  thee  may  seem  ; 

Choose  thou  my  good  and  ill ; 

Choose  thou  for  me  my  friends, 
My  sickness  or  my  health  ; 

Choose  thou  my  cares  for  me, 
My  poverty  or  wealth. 

Not  mine,  not  mine  the  choice, 
In  things  or  great  or  small  ; 

Be  thou  my  guide,  my  strength, 
My  wisdom,  and  my  all. 


ABIDE   WITH    US 

'T  IS  evening  now  ! 
O  Saviour,  wilt  not  thou 
Enter  my  home  and  heart, 
Nor  ever  hence  depart, 
Even  when  the  morning  breaks. 
And  earth  again  awakes  ? 
Thou  wilt  abide  with  me, 
And  I  with  thee. 

The  world  is  old  ! 

Its  air  grows  dull  and  cold  ; 

Upon  its  aged  face 

The  wrinkles  come  apace  ; 

Its  western  sky  is  wan, 

Its  youth  and  joy  are  gone. 

O  Master,  be  our  light, 

When  o'er  us  falls  the  night. 

Evil  is  round  ! 
Iniquities  abound  ; 
Our  cottage  will  be  lone 
When  the  great  Sun  is  gone  ; 


BONAR  —  MONSELL 


177 


O  Saviour,  come  and  bless, 
Come  share  our  loneliness  ; 
We  need  a  comforter  ; 
Take  up  thy  dwelling  here. 


THE    MASTER'S  TOUCH 

IN  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard  ; 
In  the  rough  marble  beauty  hides  un- 
seen ; 

To  wake  the  music  and  the  beauty  need^ 
The  master's  touch,  the  sculptor's  chisel 
keen. 

Great  Master,  touch  us  with  thy  skilful 

hand, 

Let  not  the  music  that  is  in  us  die  ; 
Great  Sculptor,  hew   and  polish   us  ;   nor 

let, 
Hidden  and  lost,  thy  form  within  us  lie. 

Spare  not  the  stroke  ;  do  with  us  as  thou 

wilt  ; 
Let  there  be  nought  unfinish'd,  broken, 

marr'd  ; 

Complete  thy  purpose,  that  we  may  become 
Thy  perfect  image,  O  our  God  and  Lord. 

A  LITTLE  WHILE 

BEYOND  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

I  shall  be  soon. 


Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strewing 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  this  pulse's  fever  beating, 

1  shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  frost  chain  and  the  fever 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  rock  waste  and  the  rivers 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 


Samuel 


LITANY 


WHEN  my  feet  have  wander'd 

From  the  narrow  way 
Out  into  the  desert, 

Gone  like  sheep  astray  ; 
Soil'd  and  sore  with  travel 
Through  the  ways  of  men, 
All  too  weak  to  bear  me 
Back  to  Thee  again  : 
Hear  me,  O  my  Father  ! 
From  Thy  mercy-seat, 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  feet  ! 


When  my  hands,  unholy 

Through  some  sinful  deed 
Wrought  in  me,  have  freshly 
Made  my  Saviour's  bleed  : 
And  I  cannot  lift  up 
Mine  to  Thee  in  prayer, 
Tied  and  bound,  and  holden 
Back  by  my  despair  : 
Then,  my  Father  !  loose  them, 
Break  for  me  their  bands, 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  hands  ! 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


When  my  thoughts,  unruly, 
Dare  to  doubt  of  Thee, 

And  thy  ways  to  question 
Deem  is  to  be  free  : 

Till,  through  cloud  and  darkness, 

Wholly  gone  astray, 

They  find  no  returning 

To  the  narrow  way  : 

Thea,  my  God  !  mine  only 

Trust  and  truth  art  Thou  ; 

Save  me  by  the  passion 

Of  the  bleeding  brow  ! 


When  my  heart,  forgetful 

Of  the  love  that  yet, 
Though  by  man  forgotten, 

Never  can  forget ; 
All  its  best  affections 
Spent  on  things  below, 
In  its  sad  despondings 
Knows  not  where  to  go  : 
Then,  my  God  !  mine  only 
Hope  and  help  Thou  art  ; 
Save  me  by  the  passion 
Of  the  bleeding  heart ! 


f  refccncfe  iMIiam  f  afar 


THE   WILL   OF   GOD 

I  WORSHIP  thee,  sweet  will  of  God  ! 

And  all  thy  ways  adore  ; 
And  every  day  I  live,  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Thou  wert  the  end,  the  blessed  rule 
Of  our  Saviour's  toils  and  tears  ; 

Thou  wert  the  passion  of  his  heart 
Those  three  and  thirty  years. 

And  he  hath  breath'd  into  my  soul 

A  special  love  of  thee, 
A  love  to  lose  my  will  in  his, 

And  by  that  loss  be  free. 

I  love  to  see  thee  bring  to  nought 

The  plans  of  wily  men  ; 
When  simple  hearts  outwit  the  wise, 

Oh,  thou  art  loveliest  then. 

The  headstrong  world  it  presses  hard 

Upon  the  church  full  oft, 
And  then  how  easily  thou  turn'st 

The  hard  ways  into  soft. 

I  love  to  kiss  each  print  where  thou 
Hast  set  thine  unseen  feet  ; 

I  cannot  fear  thee,  blessed  will  ! 
Thine  empire  is  so  sweet. 

When  obstacles  and  trials  seem 

Like  prison  walls  to  be, 
1  do  the  little  I  can  do, 

And  leave  the  rest  to  thee. 


I  know  not  what  it  is  to  doubt, 

My  heart  is  ever  gay  ; 
I  run  no  risk,  for,  come  what  will, 

Thou  always  hast  thy  way. 

I  have  no  cares,  O  blessed  will  ! 

For  all  my  cares  are  thine  : 
I  live  in  triumph,  Lord  !  for  thou 

Hast  made  thy  triumphs  mine. 

And  when  it  seems  no  chance  or  change 
From  grief  can  set  me  free, 

Hope  finds  its  strength  in  helplessness, 
And  gayly  waits  on  thee. 

Man's  weakness,  waiting  upon  God, 

Its  end  can  never  miss, 
For  men  on  earth  no  work -can  do 

More  angel-like  than  this. 

Ride  on,  ride  on,  triumphantly, 
Thou  glorious  will,  ride  on  ! 

Faith's  pilgrim  sons  behind  thee  take 
The  road  that  thou  hast  gone. 

He  always  wins  who  sides  with  God, 

To  him  no  chance  is  lost  ; 
God's  will  is  sweetest  to  him,  when 

It  triumphs  at  his  cost. 

Ill  that  he  blesses  is  our  good, 

And  unbless'd  good  is  ill  ; 
And  all  is  right  that  seems  most  wrong, 

If  it  be  his  sweet  wilL 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM   FABER 


179 


PARADISE 

O  PARADISE,  O  Paradise, 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest, 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land 
Where  they  that  lov'd  are  blest  ? 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God's  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

The  world  is  growing  old  ; 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  and  free 

Where  love  is  never  cold  ? 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

.  Wherefore  doth  death  delay  ? 
Bright  death,  that  is  the  welcome  dawn 
Of  our  eternal  day. 

0  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

'T  is  weary  waiting  here  ; 

1  long  to  be  where  Jesus  is, 
To  feel,  to  see  him  near. 

0  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 
I  want  to  sin  no  more, 

1  want  to  be  as  pure  on  earth 
As  on  thy  spotless  shore. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

I  greatly  long  to  see 
The  special  place  my  dearest  Lord 

Is  destining  for  me. 

O  Paradise,  O  Paradise, 

I  feel  't  will  not  be  long  ; 
Patience  !  I  almost  think  I  hear 
Faint  fragments  of  thy  song  ; 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God's  most  holy  sight. 


THE   RIGHT   MUST^WIN 

OH,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  his  part 
Upon  this  battle-field  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart  ! 

He  hides  himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God  ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  he  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost  ; 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  him  most. 

Ill  masters  good  ;  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  gdod  with  good 

Is  at  cross-purposes. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  ; 

His  ways  are  far  above, 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reach'd 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

Workman  of  God  !     Oh,  lose  not  heart, 
But  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 

And  in  the  darkest  battle-field 
Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  bless'd  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  he 

Is  most  invisible. 

Bless'd,  too,  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  mail's  blindfold  eye. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God  ; 

And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 

To  falter  would  be  sin. 


i8o 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


Sfirtjjut 


TEACH    US   TO    DIE 

WHERE  shall  we  learn  to  die  ? 

Go,  gaze  with  steadfast  eye 

On  dark  Gethsemane 

Or  darker  Calvary, 

Where  through  each  lingering  hour 

The  Lord  of  grace  and  power, 

Most  lowly  and  most  high, 

Has  taught  the  Christian  how  to  die. 

When  in  the  olive  shade 
His  long  last  prayer  he  pray'd, 
When  on  the  cross  to  heaven 
His  parting  spirit  was  given, 
He  show'd  that  to  fulfil 
The  Father's  gracious  will, 
Not  asking  how  or  why, 
Aloue  prepares  the  soul  to  die. 

No  word  of  anxious  strife, 

No  anxious  cry  for  life  ; 

By  scoff  and  torture  torn, 

He  speaks  not  scorn  for  scorn  ; 

Calmly  forgiving  those 

Who  deem  themselves  his  foes, 

In  silent  majesty 

He  points  the  way  at  peace  to  die. 

Delighting  to  the  last 
In  memories  of  the  past  ; 
Glad  at  the  parting  meal 
In  lowly  tasks  to  kneel ; 


Still  yearning  to  the  end 

For  mother  and  for  friend  ; 

His  great  humility 

Loves  in  such  acts  of  love  to  die. 

Beyond  his  depth  of  woes 
A  wider  thought  arose, 
Along  his  path  of  gloom, 
Thought  for  his  country's  doom  ; 
Athwart  all  pain  and  grief, 
Thought  for  the  contrite  thief  : 
The  far-stretch'd  sympathy 
Lives  on  when  all  beside  shall  die, 

Bereft,  but  not  alone, 

The  world  is  still  his  own  ; 

The  realm  of  deathless  truth 

Still  breathes  immortal  youth  ; 

Sure,  though  in  shuddering  dread, 

That  all  is  finished, 

With  purpose  fix'd  and  high 

The  friend  of  all  mankind  must  die. 

Oh,  by  those  weary  hours 

Of  slowly-ebbing  powers  ; 

By  those  deep  lessons  heard 

In  each  expiring  word  ; 

By  that  unfailing  love 

Lifting  the  soul  above, 

When  our  last  end  is  nigh, 

So  teach  us,  Lord,  with  thee  to  die. 


MY  TIMES  ARE   IN  THY  HAND 

MY  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

I  know  not  what  a  day 
Or  e'en  an  hour  may  bring  to  me, 
But  I  am  safe  while  trusting  thee, 
Though  all  things  fade  away. 
All  weakness,  I 
On  him  rely 

Who  fix'd  the  earth  and  spread  the  starry 
sky. 


My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

Pale  poverty  or  wealth, 
Corroding  care  or  calm  repose, 
Spring's  balmy  breath  or  winter's  snowSf 
Sickness  or  buoyant  health,  — 
Whate'er  betide, 
If  God  provide, 
'Tis  for  the  best  ;  I  wish  no  lot  beside 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 
Should  friendship  pure  illume 


NEWMAN   HALL  — ANNE  BRONTE  — BLEW 


181 


And  strew  my  path  with  fairest  flowers, 
Or  should  I  spend  life's  dreary  hours 
In  solitude's  dark  gloom, 
Thou  art  a  friend, 
Till  time  shall  end 

Unchangeably  the  same  ;  in  thee  all  beau- 
ties blend. 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

Many  or  few,  my  days 
I  leave  with  thee,  —  this  only  pray, 
That  by  thy  grace,  I,  every  day 
Devoting  to  thy  praise, 
May  ready  be 
To  welcome  thee 
Whene'er  thou  com'st  to  set  my  spirit  free. 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

Howe'er  those  times  may  end, 
Sudden  or  slow  my  soul's  release, 
Midst  anguish,  frenzy,  or  in.  peace, 

I  'm  safe  with  Christ  my  friend. 


If  he  is  nigh, 
Howe'er  I. die, 
'T  will  be  the  dawn  of  heavenly  ecstasy. 

My  times  are  in  thy  hand  ! 

To  thee  I  can  intrust 
My  slumbering  clay,  till  thy  command 
Bids  all  the  dead  before  thee  stand, 
Awaking  from  the  dust. 
Beholding  thee, 
What  bliss  't  will  be 
With  all  thy  saints  to  spend  eternity  ! 

To  spend  eternity 

In  heaven's  unclouded  light ! 
From  sorrow,  sin,  and  frailty  free, 
Beholding  and  resembling  thee,  — 
O  too  transporting  sight ! 
Prospect  too  fair 
For  flesh  to  bear  ! 

Haste  !  haste  !  my  Lord,  and  soon  trans- 
port me  there  ! 


3lnne  Bronte 


A   PRAYER 


MY  God  (oh,  let  me  call  thee  mine, 
Weak,  wretched  sinner  though  I  be), 

My  trembling  soul  would  fain  be  thine  ; 
My  feeble  faith  still  clings  to  thee. 

Not  only  for  the  past  I  grieve, 
The  future  fills  me  with  dismay  ; 

Unless  Thou  hasten  to  relieve, 
Thy  suppliant  is  a  castaway. 


I  cannot  say  my  faith  is  strong, 
I  dare  not  hope  my  love  is  great  ; 

But  strength  and  love  to  thee  belong  ; 
Oh,  do  not  leave  me  desolate  ! 

I  know  I  owe  my  all  to  thee  ; 

Oh,  take  the  heart  I  cannot  give  ! 
Do  Thou  my  strength  —  my  Saviour  be, 

And  make  me  to  thy  glory  live. 


0  LORD,  THY  WING  OUTSPREAD 

O  LORD,  thy  wing  outspread, 

And  us  thy  flock  infold  ; 
Thy  broad  wing  spread,  that  covered 

Thy  mercy-seat  of  old  : 
And  o'er  our  nightly  roof, 

And  round  our  daily  path, 
Keep  watch  and  ward,  and  hold  aloof 

The  devil  and  his  wrath. 


For  thou  dost  fence  our  head, 

And  shield  —  yea,  thou  alone  — 
The  peasant  on  his  pallet-bed, 

The  prince  upon  his  throne. 
Make  then  our  heart  thine  ark, 

Whereon  thy  Mystic  Dove 
May  brood,  and  lighten  it,  when  dark, 

With  beams  of  peace  and  love  ; 


i8a 


EARLY   HYMNODY 


That  dearer  far  to  thee 
Than  gold  or  cedar-shrine 

The  bodies  of  thy  saints  may  be, 
The  souls  by  thee  made  thine  : 


So  nevermore  be  stirr'd 

That  voice  within  our  heart, 

The  fearful  word  that  once  was  heard,  • 
"  Up,  let  us  hence  depart  1  " 


Cecil  fttmttg 


THERE    IS   A   GREEN    HILL 

THERE  is  a  green  hill  far  away, 

Without  a  city  wall, 
Where  the  dear  Lord  was  crucified, 

Who  died  to  save  us  all. 

We  may  not  know,  we  cannot  tell 
What  pains  he  had  to  bear, 

But  we  believe  it  was  for  us 
He  hung  and  suffer'd  there. 

He  died  that  we  might  be  forgiven, 
He  died  to  make  us  good, 


That  we  might  go  at  last  to  heaven, 
Sav'd  by  his  precious  blood. 

There  was  no  other  good  enough 

To  pay  the  price  of  sin  ; 
He  only  could  unlock  the  gate 

Of  heaven,  and  let  us  in. 

O  dearly,  dearly  has  he  lov'd, 
And  we  must  love  him  too, 

And  trust  in  his  redeeming  blood, 
And  try  his  works  to  do. 


Cecilia 


THE    LOST   SHEEP 

("THE   NINETY   AND   NINE") 

THERE  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay 

In  the  shelter  of  the  fold  ; 
But  one  was  out  on  the  hills  away, 

Far  off  from  the  gates  of  gold, 
Away  on  the  mountains  wild  and  bare, 
Away  from  the  tender  Shepherd's  care. 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  here  thy  ninety  and  nine  : 
Are  they  not  enough  for  thee  ?  " 

But  the  Shepherd  made  answer  :   "  'T  is  of 

mine 
Has  wander'd  away  from  me  ; 

And  although  the  road  be  rough  and  steep 

I  go  to  the  desert  to  find  my  sheep." 

But  none  of  the  ransom'd  ever  knew 
How  deep  were  the  waters  cross'd, 

Nor  how  dark  was  the  night  that  the  Lord 

pass'd  through 
Ere  he  found  his  sheep  that  was  lost. 


Out  in  the  desert  he  heard  its  cry  — 
Sick  and  helpless,  and  ready  to  die. 

"  Lord,  whence  are  those  blood-drops  all 

the  way, 

That  mark  out  the  mountain  track  ?  " 
"  They  were  shed  for  one  who  had  gone 

astray 

Ere  the  Shepherd  could  bring  him  back." 
"Lord,  whence  are  thy  hands  so  rent  and 

torn  ?  " 
"They   are   pierced  to-night  by  many  a 

thorn." 

But  all  through  the  mountains,  thunder- 
riven, 

And  up  from  the  rocky  steep, 
There  rose  a  cry  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 
"  Rejoice  !  I  have  found  my  sheep  1 " 
And  the  angels  echoed  around  the  throne, 
"  Rejoice,  for  the   Lord  brings  back  his 
own  1 " 


BARING-GOULD  —  HAVERGAL 


183 


Now  the  day  is  over, 
Night  is  drawing  nigh, 

Shadows  of  the  evening 
Steal  across  the  sky. 

Now  the  darkness  gathers, 
Stars  begin  to  peep, 

Birds  and  beasts  and  flowers 
Soon  will  be  asleep. 

Jesu,  give  the  weary 

Calm  and  sweet  repose  ; 

With  thy  tenderest  blessing 
May  our  eyelids  close. 

Grant  to  little  children 
Visions  bright  of  thee  ; 

Guard  the  sailors  tossing 
On  the  deep  blue  sea. 


Comfort  every  sufferer 
Watching  late  in  pain  ; 

Those  who  plan  some  evil 
From  their  sin  restrain. 

Through  the  long  night-watches 
May  thine  angels  spread 

Their  white  wings  above  me, 
Watching  round  my  bed. 

When  the  morning  wakens, 

Then  may  I  arise 
Pure  and  fresh  and  sinless 

In  thy  holy  eyes. 

Glory  to  the  Father, 

Glory  to  the  Son, 
And  to  thee,  bless'd  Spirit, 

Whilst  all  ages  run.     AMEN. 


f  ranceg  ftitrfep 


GAVE   MY   LIFE   FOR  THEE 

I  GAVE  my  life  for  thee, 
My  precious  blood  I  shed 

That  thou  mightst  ransom'd  be, 
And  quickeu'd  from  the  dead. 

I  gave  my  life  for  thee  ; 

What  hast  thou  given  for  me  ? 

I  spent  long  years  for  thee 

In  weariness  and  woe, 
That  an  eternity 

Of  joy  thou  mightest  know. 
I  spent  long  years  for  thee  ; 
Hast  thou  spent  one  for  me  ? 

My  Father's  home  of  light, 
My  rainbow-circled  throne, 

I  left,  for  earthly  night, 

For  wanderings  sad  and  lone. 

I  left  it  all  for  thee  ; 

Hast  thou  left  aught  for  me  ? 


I  suffer'd  much  for  thee, 

More  than  thy  tongue  may  tell 
Of  bitterest  agony, 

To  rescue  thee  from  hell. 
I  suffer'd  much  for  thee  ; 
What  canst  thou  bear  for  me  ? 

And  I  have  brought  to  thee, 
Down  from  my  home  above, 

Salvation  full  and  free, 
My  pardon  and  my  love. 

Great  gifts  I  brought  to  thee  ; 

What  hast  thou  brought  to  me  ? 

Oh,  let  thy  life  be  given, 
Thy  years  for  him  be  spent, 

World-fetters  all  be  riven, 
And  joy  with  suffering  blent ; 

I  gave  myself  for  thee  : 

Give  thou  thyself  to  me  ? 


II 
THE  VICTORIAN    EPOCH 

(PERIOD  OF  TENNYSON,  ARNOLD,  BROWNING,  ROSSETTI,  AND  SWINBURNE) 

DEATH   OF  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH:  APRIL  23,  1850 
ALFRED   TENNYSON  APPOINTED   LAUREATE:  NOVEMBER  21,  1850 


PRELUDE 

ENGLAND  !  since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day 
For  thee  than  lights  herewith  a  century's  goal,  — 
Nor  statelier  exit  of  heroic  soul 

Conjoined  with  soul  heroic,  —  nor  a  lay 

Excelling  theirs  who  made  renowned  thy  sway 
Even  as  they  heard  the  billows  which  outroll 
Thine  ancient  sea,  and  left  their  joy  and  dole 

In  song,  and  on  the  strand  their  mantles  gray. 

Star-rayed  with  fame  thine  Abbey  windows  loom 
Above  his  dust  whom  the  Venetian  barge 
Bore  to  the  main ;  who  passed  the  two-fold  marge 

To  slumber  in  thy  keeping,  —  yet  make  room 
For  the  great  Laurif  er,  whose  chanting  large 

And  sweet  shall  last  until  our  tongue's  far  doom. 

E.  C.  S. 


THE  VICTORIAN    EPOCH 

(PERIOD  OF  TENNYSON,  ARNOLD,  BROWNING,  ROSSETTI,  AND  SWINBURNE) 
COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


frc&cricft  Cennp^on 


THIRTY-FIRST  OF  MAY 

AWAKE  !  —  the  crimson  dawn  is  glowing, 

And  blissful  breath  of  Morn 
From  golden  seas  is  earthward  flowing 

Thro'  mountain-peaks  forlorn  ; 
Twixt  the  tall  roses,  and  the  jasmines  near, 

That  darkly  hover  in  the  twilight  air, 
I  see  the  glory  streaming,  and  I  hear 

The  sweet  wind  whispering  like  a  messen- 
ger. 

'T  is  time  to  sing  !  —  the  Spirits  of  Spring 

Go  softly  by  mine  ear, 
And  out  of  Fairyland  they  bring 

Glad  tidings  to  me  here  ; 
'T  is   time  to  sing  !  now   is   the   pride   of 

Youth 

Pluming  the  woods,  and  the  first  rose  ap- 
pears, 
And  Summer  from   the   chambers  of   the 

South 
Is  coming  up  to  wipe  away  all  tears. 

They  bring  glad  tidings  from  afar 

Of  Her  that  cometh  after 
To  fill  the  earth,  to  light  the  air, 

With  music  and  with  laughter  ; 
Ev'n  now  she  leaneth  forward,  as  she  stands, 
And  her   fire-wing'd   horses,  shod  with 

gold, 
Stream,  like   a   sunrise,  from   before   her 

hands, 

And  thro'  the  Eastern  gates  her  wheels 
are  roll'd. 


'T  is  time  to  sing  —  the  woodlands  ring 

New  carols  day  by  day  ; 
The  wild  birds  of  the  islands  sing 
Whence  they  have  flown  away  ; 
'T  is   time    to    sing  :    the    nightingale    is 

come, 
And  'mid  the  laurels  chants  he  all  night 

long, 
And  bids  the  leaves  be  still,  the  winds  be 

dumb, 

And  like  the  starlight  flashes  forth  his 
song. 

Immortal  Beauty  from  above, 

Like  sunlight  breath'd  on  cloud, 
Touches  the  weary  soul  with  love, 

And  hath  unwound  the  shroud 
Of  buried  Nature  till  she  looks  again 

Fresh   in   infantine   smiles  and  childish 

tears, 
And  o'er  the  rugged  hearts  of  aged  men 

Sheds  the  pure  dew  of  Youth's  delicious 
years. 

The  heart  of  the  awaken'd  Earth 

Breathes  odorous  ecstasy  ; 
Let  ours  beat  time  unto  her  mirth, 

And  hymn  her  jubilee  ! 
The  glory  of  the  Universal  Soul 

Ascends  from  mountain-tops,  and  lowly 

flowers, 

The  mighty  pulses  throbbing  through  the 
Whole 

Call  unto  us  for  answering  life  in  ours. 


i88 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


Arise  !  young  Queen  of  forests  green, 

A  path  was  strewn  for  thee 
With  hyacinth,  and  gold  bells  atween, 

And  red  anemone  ; 
Arise  !  young  Queen  of  beauty  and  delight, 

Lift  up  in  this  fair  land  thine  happy  eyes  ; 
The   valleys   yearn,  and   gardens   for  thy 
sight, 

But  chief  this  heart  that  prays  for  thee 
with  sighs. 

How  oft  into  the  opening  blue 

I  lobk'd  up  wistfully, 
In  hope  to  see  thee  wafted  thro' 

Bright  rifts  of  stormy  sky  ; 
Many  gray  morns,  sad  nights,  and  weary 

days, 
Without  thy  golden  smile  my  heart  was 

dying  ; 

Oh  !  in  the  valleys  let  me  see  thy  face, 
And   thy   loose   locks  adown  the  wood- 
walks  flying. 

Come,  with  thy  flowers,  and  silver  showers, 

Thy  rainbows,  and  thy  light  ; 
Fold  in  thy  robe  the  naked  Hours, 

And  fill  them  with  thy  might  ; 
Though  less  I  seek  thee  for  the  loveliness 

Thou  laughest  from  thee  over  land  and 

sea, 
Than  for  the  hues  wherein  gay  Fancies  dress 

My  drooping  spirit  at  the  sight  of  thee. 

Come,  with  thy  voice  of  thousand  joys, 

Thy  leaves,  and  fluttering  wings  ; 
Come  with  thy  breezes,  and  the  noise 

Of  rivulets  and  of  springs  ; 
Though  less  I  seek  thee  for  thine  harmo- 
nies 
Of    winds   and   waters,   and   thy   songs 

divine, 

Than  for  that  Angel  that  within  me  lies, 
And   makes   glad   music   echoing    unto 
thine. 

O  Gardens  blossoming  anew  ! 

O  Rivers,  and  fresh  Rills  ! 
O  Mountains  in  your  mantles  blue  ! 

O  dales  of  daffodils  ! 
What  ye  can  do  no  mortal  spirit  can, 

Ye   have   a   strength    within  we  cannot 

borrow, 
Blessed  are  ye  beyond  the  heart  of  Man, 

Your  Joy,  your  Love,  your  Life  beyond 
all  Sorrow  ! 


THE  BLACKBIRD 

How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon  ! 
The    Blackbird   sings   along   the    sunny 

breeze 
His  ancient  song   of  leaves,  and   summer 

boon  ; 
Rich  breath  of   hayfields   streams  thro' 

whispering  trees  ; 
And  birds  of  morning  trim  their  bustling 

wings, 
And  listen  fondly  —  while   the   Blackbird 

sings. 

How  soft   the   lovelight   of   the  West  re- 
poses 
On  this  green  valley's  cheery  solitude, 

On   the  trim   cottage   with   its   screen  of 

roses, 
On  the  gray  belfry  with  its  ivy  hood, 

And  murmuring  mill-race,  and  the  wheel 
that  flings 

Its  bubbling  freshness  —  while  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

The  very  dial  on  the  village  church 

Seems   as    'twere   dreaming   in  a  dozy 

rest  ; 

The  scribbled  benches  underneath  the  porch 

Bask  in  the  kindly  welcome  of  the  West  ; 

But  the  broad  casements  of  the  old  Three 

Kings 

Blaze  like  a  furnace  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

And  there  beneath  the  immemorial  elm 
Three  rosy  revellers  round  a  table  sit, 

And  thro'  gray  clouds  give  laws  unto  the 

realm, 

Curse  good  and  great,  but  worship  their 
own  wit, 

And  roar  of  fights,  and  fairs,  and  junket- 
ings, 

Corn,  colts,  and  curs  —  the  while  the  Black' 
bird  sings. 

Before  her  home,  in  her  accustom'd  seat. 
The   tidy   Grandam    spins   beneath    the 

shade 
Of  the  old  honeysuckle,  at  her  feet 

The  dreaming  pug,  and  purring  tabby 

laid  ; 

To  her  low  chair  a  little  maiden  clings, 
And  spells  in  silence  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sinpjs. 


FREDERICK   TENNYSON 


189 


Sometimes  the  shadow  of  a  lazy  cloud 
Breathes  o'er  the  hamlet  with  its  gardens 

green, 

While  the  far  fields  with  sunlight  overflow' d 

Like  golden  shores  of  Fairyland  are  seen  ; 

Again,  the  sunshine  on  the  shadow  springs, 

And  fires  the  thicket  where  the  Blackbird 

sings. 

The  woods,  the  lawn,  the  peaked  Manor- 
house, 
With  its  peach-cover'd  walls,  and  rookery 

loud, 
The  trim,  quaint  garden  alleys,  screen'd 

with  boughs, 

The  lion-headed  gates,  so  grim  and  proud, 
The  mossy  fountain  with  its  murmurings, 
Lie  in  warm  sunshine  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

The  ring  of  silver  voices,  and  the  sheen 
Of    festal    garments  —  and    my    Lady 

streams 

With  her  gay  court  across  the  garden  green  ; 
Some   laugh,  and  dance,  some   whisper 

their  love-dreams  ; 

And  one  calls  for  a  little  page  ;  he  strings 
Her  lute  beside  her  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

A  little  while  —  and  lo  !  the  charm  is  heard, 
A  youth,  whose  life  has  been  all  Summer, 

steals 
Forth  from  the  noisy   guests   around  the 

board, 
Creeps  by  her  softly  ;  at  her  footstool 

kneels  ; 
And,   when   she   pauses,   murmurs   tender 

things 
Into  her  fond  ear  —  while  the   Blackbird 

sings. 

The  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys  curl 

up  higher, 

And  dizzy  things  of  eve  begin  to  float 
Upon  the  light  ;  the  breeze  begins  to  tire  ; 

Half  way  to  sunset  with  a  drowsy  note 
The   ancient   clock    from   out    the   valley 

swings  ; 

The  Grandam  nods  —  and  still  the  Black- 
bird sings. 

Far  shouts  and  laughter  from  the  farmstead 

peal, 
Where  the  great  stack  is  piling  in  the  sun ; 


Thro'  narrow  gates  o'erladen  wagons  reel, 

And  barking  curs  into  the  tumult  run  ; 

While  the  inconstant  wind  bears  off,  and 

brings 
The  merry  tempest  —  and  the   Blackbird 

sings. 

On  the  high  wold  the  last  look  of  the  sun 

Burns,  like  a  beacon,over  dale  and  stream ; 
The  shouts  have  ceased,  the  laughter  and 

the  fun  ; 
The  Grandam  sleeps,  and  peaceful  be  her 

dream  ; 

Only  a  hammer  on  an  anvil  rings  ; 
The  day  is  dying  —  still  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Now  the  good  Vicar  passes  from  his  gate 
Serene,  with  long  white  hair  ;  and  in  his 

eye 
Burns  the  clear  spirit  that  hath  conquer'd 

Fate, 

And  felt  the  wings  of  immortality  ; 
His  heart  is  throng'd  with  great  imaginings, 
And  tender  mercies  —  while  the  Blackbird 
sings. 

Down  by  the  brook  he  bends  his  steps,  and 

thro' 

A  lowly  wicket  ;  and  at  last  he  stands 
Awful  beside  the  bed  of  one  who  grew 
From    boyhood   with    him  —  who   with 

lifted  hands 

And  eyes,  seems  listening  to  far  welcomings, 
And  sweeter  music  than  the  Blackbird  sings. 

Two  golden  stars,   like   tokens   from   the 

Blest, 
Strike  on  his  dim  orbs  from  the  setting 

sun  ; 
His  sinking  hands   seem   pointing  to  the 

West; 
He  smiles  as  though  he  said  —  "  Thy  will 

be  done  : " 

His  eyes,  they  see  not  those  illuminings ; 
His  ears,  they  hear  not  what  the  Blackbird 

sings. 

FROM    "NIOBE" 

I  TOO  remember,  in  the  after  years, 
The  long-hair'd  Niobe,  when  she  was  old, 
Sitting  alone,  without  the  city  gates, 
Upon    the    ground ;    alone    she    sat,   and 

mourn'd. 
Her  watchers,  mindful  of  her  royal  state, 


190 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Her  widowhood,  and  sorrows,  follow'd  her 
Far  off,  when  she  went  forth,  to  be  alone 
In  lonely  places  ;  and  at  set  of  sun 
They  won  her  back  by  some  fond  phantasy, 
By  telling  her  some  tale  of  the  gone  days 
Of  her  dear  lost  ones,  promising  to  show  her 
Some  faded  garland,  or  some  broken  toy, 
Dusty  and  dim,  which  they  had  found,  or 

feign'd 
To  have   found,  some   plaything  of   their 

infant  hours. 

Within  the  echoes  of  a  ruin'd  court 
She  sat  and  mourn'd,  with  her  lamenting 

voice, 

Melodious  in  sorrow,  like  the  sound 
Of  funeral  hymns  ;  for  in  her  youth  she  sang 
Along  the  myrtle  valleys  in  the  spring, 
Plucking  the  fresh  pinks  and  the  hyacinths, 
With  her  fair  troop  of  girls,  who  answer'd 

her 

Silverly  sweet,  so  that  the  lovely  tribe 
Were  Nature's  matchless  treble  to  the  last 
Delicious  pipe,  pure,  warbling,  dewy  clear. 
In  summer  and  in  winter,  that  lorn  voice 
Went  up,  like  the  struck  spirit  of  this  world, 
Making  the  starry  roof  of  heaven  tremble 
With  her  lament,  and  agony,  and  all 
The  crowned  Gods  in  their  high  tabernacles 
Sigh  unawares,  and  think  upon  their  deeds. 
Her  guardians  let  her  wander  at  her  will, 
For  all  could  weep  for  her  ;  had  she  not 

been 

The  first  and  fairest  of  that  sunny  land, 
And  bless'd  with  all  things  ;  doubly  crown'd 

with  power 
And  beauty,   doubly  now  discrown'd  and 

fallen  ? 

Oh  !  none  would  harm  her,  only  she  herself  ; 
And  chiefly  then  when  they  would  hold  her 

back, 

And  sue  her  to  take  comfort  in  her  home, 
Or  in  the  bridal  chambers  of  her  youth, 
Or  in  the  old  gardens,  once  her  joy  and 

pride, 

Or  the  rose-bowers  along  the  river-shore 
She  lov'd  of  old,  now  silent  and  forsaken. 
For  then  she  fled  away,  as  though  in  fear, 
As  if  she  saw  the  spectres  of  her  hours 
Of  joyaunce  pass  before  her  in  the  shapes 
Of  her  belov'd  ones.     But  most  she  chose 
Waste  places,  where  the  moss  and  lichen 

crawl'd, 

And  the  wild  ivy  flutter 'd,  and  the  rains 
Wept    thro'    the    roofless   ruins,   and    all 

seem'd 


To  mourn  in  symbols,  and  to  answer  to  her, 
Showing  her  outward  that  she  was  within. 
The  unregarding  multitude  pass'd  on, 
Becaiise  her  woe  was  a  familiar  sight. 
But  some  there  were  that  shut  their  ears 

and  fled, 
And  they  were  childless  ;   the  rose-lipp'd 

and  young 

Felt  that  imperial  voice  and  desolate 
Strike  cold  into  their  hearts  ;  children  at 

play 
Were  smit  with  sudden  silence,  with  their 

toys 
Clutch'd  in  their  hands,  forgetful  of   the 

game. 

Aged  she  was,  yet  beautiful  in  age. 
Her  beauty,  thro'  the  cloud  of  years  and 

grief, 

Shone  as  a  wintry  sun  ;  she  never  smil'd, 
Save  when  a  darkness  pass'd  across  the  sun, 
And  blotted  out  from  her  entranced  eyes 
Disastrous  shapes  that  rode  upon  his  disk, 
Tyrannous  visions,  armed  presences  ; 
And  then  she  sigh'd  and  lifted  up  her  head, 
And  shed  a  few  warm  tears.     But  when  he 

rose, 

And  her  sad  eyes  unclos'd  before  his  beams, 
She  started  up  with  terrors  in  her  look, 
That  wither'd  up  all  pity  in  affright, 
And  ran  about,  like  one  with  Furies  torn, 
And  rent  her  hair,  and  madly  threaten'd 

Heaven, 

And  call'd  for  retribution  on  the  Gods, 
Crying,   "  O    save   me   from   Him,   He   is 

there  ; 

Oh,  let  me  wear  my  little  span  of  life. 
I  see  Him  in  the  centre  of  the  sun  ; 
His  face  is  black  with  wrath  !  thou  angry 

God, 

I  am  a  worthless  thing,  a  childless  mother^ 
Widow'd  and  wasted,  old  and  comfortless, 
But  still  I  am  alive  ;  wouldst  thou  take 

all? 
Thou  who  hast  snatch'd  my  hopes  and  my 

delights, 
Thou  who  hast  kill'd  my  children,  wouldst 

thou  take 

The  little  remnant  of  my  days  of  sorrow, 
Which  the  sharp  winds  of  the  first  winter 

days, 
Or  the  first  night  of  frost,  may  give  unto 

thee  ? 

For  never  shall  I  seek  again  that  home 
Where  they  are  not  ;  cold,  cold  shall  be  the 

hearth 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 


191 


Where  they  were  gather'd,  cold  as  is  my 

heart  ! 

Oh  !  if  my  living  lot  be  bitterness, 
'T  is  sweeter  than  to  think,  that,  if  I  go 
Down  to  the  dust,  then  I  shall  think  no  more 
Of  them  I  lov'd  and  lost,  the  thoughts  of 

whom 

Are  all  my  being,  and  shall  speak  no  more, 
In  answer  to  their  voices  in  my  heart, 
As  though  it  were  mine  ear,  rewording  all 
Their  innocent  delights,  and  fleeting  pains, 
Their  infant  fondnesses,  their  little  wants, 
And  simple  words.  Oh  !  while  I  am,  I 

dream 
Of  those  who  are  not  ;  thus   my   anguish 

grows 
My  solace,  as  the  salt  surf  of  the  seas 


Clothes  the  sharp  crags  with  beauty."  Then 

her  mood 
Would    veer    to    madness,  like   a  windy 

change 
That  brings  up  thunder,  and  she  rais'd  her 

voice, 
Crying,  "  And  yet  they  are  not,  they  who 

were, 
And     never     more     shall    be !     accursed 

dreams  ! " 

And,  suddenly  becoming  motionless, 
The  bright  hue  from  her  cheeks  and  fore* 

head  pass'd, 

And,  full  of  awful  resignation,  fixing 
Her  large  undazzled  orbs  upon  the  sun, 
She  shriek'd,  "  Strike,  God,  thou  canst  not 

harm  me  more  !  " 


Cfjarleg  €ennpgon  €umer 


THE  LION'S  SKELETON 

How  long,  O  lion,  hast  thou  fleshless  lain  ? 
What   rapt    thy   fierce   and    thirsty   eyes 

away  ? 
First  came  the  vulture  :  worms,  heat,  wind, 

and  rain 

Ensued,  and  ardors  of  the  tropic  day. 
I  know  not  —  if  they  spar'd  it  thee  —  how 

long 
The   canker   sate    within    thy    monstrous 

mane, 
Till  it  fell  piecemeal,  and  bestrew'd  the 

plain, 
Or,  shredded  by  the  storming  sands,  was 

flung 

Again  to  earth  ;  but  now  thine  ample  front, 
Whereon  the  great  frowns  gather'd,  is  laid 

bare  ; 
The   thunders   of   thy   throat,  which   erst 

were  wont 

1o  scare  the  desert,  are  no  longer  there  ; 
Thy  claws  remain,  but  worms,  wind,  rain, 

and  heat 
Have  sifted  out  the  substance  of  thy  feet. 

THE  VACANT  CAGE 

OUR  little  bird  in  his  full  day  of  health 
With  his  gold-coated  beauty  made  us  glad, 
And  when  disease  approach'd   with   cruel 

stealth, 
A  sadder  interest  our  smiles  forbad. 


How  oft  we  watch'd  him,  when  the  night 

hours  came, 
His   poor   head   buried   near  his  bursting 

heart, 
Which  beat  within  a  puff'd  and  troubled 

frame  ; 

But  he  has  gone  at  last,  and  play'd  his  part : 
The   seed-glass,  slighted  by  his  sickening 

taste, 

The  little  moulted  feathers,  saffron-tipp'd, 
The   fountain,  where   his  fever'd  bill  was 

dipp'd, 

The  perches,  which  his  failing  feet  embraced, 
All  these  remain  —  not  even  his  bath  re- 

mov'd  — 
But  where 's  the  spray  and  flutter  that  we 

lov'd  ? 

THE  LACHRYMATORY 

FROM  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding 
years 

Were  cropp'd  by  death,  when  Rome  was  in 
her  prime, 

I  brought  the  phial  of  his  kinsman's  tears, 

There  placed,  as  was  the  wont  of  ancient 
time  ; 

Round  me,  that  night,  in  meads  of  aspho- 
del, 

The  souls  of  the  early  dead  did  come  and 

go, 

Drawn  by  that  flask  of  grief,  as  by  a  spell 
That  long-imprison'd  shower  of  human  woe. 


192 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


As  round  Ulysses,  for  the  draught  of  blood, 
The  heroes  throng'd,  those  spirits  .flock'd 

to  me, 
Where,  lonely,  with  that  charm  of  tears,  I 

stood  ; 

Two,  most  of  all,  my  dreaming  eyes  did  see  ; 
The  young  Marcellus,  young,  but  great  and 

good, 
And  Tully's  daughter,  mourn'd  so  tenderly. 


THE   BUOY-BELL 

How  like  the  leper,  with  his  own  sad  cry 
Enforcing  his  own  solitude,  it  tolls  ! 
That  lonely  bell  set  in  the  rushing  shoals, 
To  warn  us  from  the  place  of  jeopardy  $ 
O  friend  of  man !   sore-vex'd  by  ocean's 

power, 
The  changing  tides  wash  o'er  thee  day  by 

day  ; 
Thy  trembling  mouth  is  fill'd  with  bitter 

spray, 

Yet  still  thou  ringest  on  from  hour  to  hour  ; 
High  is  thy  mission,  though  thy  lot  is 

wild  — 

To  be  in  danger's  realm  a  guardian  sound  ; 
In  seamen's  dreams  a  pleasant  part  to  bear, 
And  earn  their  blessing  as  the  year  goes 

round, 
And  strike  the  key-note  of  each  grateful 

prayer, 
Breath' d  in  their  distant  homes  by  wife  or 

child  ! 


THE   FOREST   GLADE 

As  one  dark  morn  I  trod  a  forest  glade, 

A  sunbeam  enter'd  at  the  further  end, 

And  ran  to  meet  me  thro'  the  yielding 
shade  — 

As  one,  who  in  the  distance  sees  a  friend, 

And,  smiling,  hurries  to  him  ;  but  mine 
eyes, 

Sewilder'd  by  the  change  from  dark  to 
bright, 

Receiv'd  the  greeting  with  a  quick  sur- 
prise 

At  first,  and  then  with  tears  of  pure  de- 
light ; 

For  sad  my  thoughts  had  been  —  the  tem- 
pest's wrath 

Had  gloom 'd  the  night,  and  made  the 
morrow  gray  ; 


That    heavenly   guidance   humble    sorrow 

hath, 

Had  turn'd  my  feet  into  that  forest-way, 
Just  when  His  morning  light  came  down 

the  path, 
Among  the  lonely  woods  at  early  day. 


THE   LATTICE   AT   SUNRISE 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mus'd  and  pray'dj 
I  saw  my  lattice  prank'd  upon  the  wall, 
The   flaunting   leaves    and    flitting    birds 

withal  — 

A  sunny  phantom  interlaced  with  shade  ; 
"  Thanks  be  to  heaven,"  in  happy  mood  I 

said, 

"  What  sweeter  aid  my  matins  could  befall 
Than  the  fair  glory  from  the  East  hath 

made  ? 
What  holy  sleights  hath  God,  the  Lord  of 

all, 

To  bid  us  feel  and  see  !  we  are  not  free 
To  say  we  see  not,  for  the  glory  comes 
Nightly  and  daily,  like  the  flowing  sea  ; 
His  lustre  pierceth  through  the  midnight 

glooms 
And,  at  prime  hour,  behold !   He  follows 

me 
With  golden  shadows  to  my  secret  rooms." 


THE    ROOKERY 

METHOUGHT,  as  I  beheld  the  rookery  pass 
Homeward  at  dusk  upon  the  rising  wind, 
How  every  heart  in  that  close-flying  mass 
Was   well    befriended   by    the    Almighty 

mind  : 
He  marks  each  sable  wing  that  soars  or 

drops, 
He  sees  them   forth  at  morning  to  their 

fare, 

He  sets  them  floating  on  His  evening  air, 
He  sends  them  home  to  rest  on  the  tree- 
tops  : 
And   when   through   umber'd    leaves    the 

night-winds  pour, 

With  lusty  impulse  rocking  all  the  grove, 
The  stress  is  measur'd  by  an  eye  of  love, 
No  root  is  burst,  though  all  the  branches 

roar  ; 

And,  in  the  morning,  cheerly  as  before, 
The   dark   clan  talks,   the  social  instincts 

move. 


CHARLES  TENNYSON  TURNER 


ORION 

How  oft  I  've  watch'd  thee  from  the  gar- 
den croft, 

In  silence,  when  the  busy  day  was  done, 

Shining  with  wondrous  brilliancy  aloft, 

And  flickering  like  a  casement  'gainst  the 
sun  ! 

I  've  seen  thee  soar  from  out  some  snowy 
cloud, 

Which  held  the  frozen  breath  of  land  and 
sea, 

Yet  broke  and  sever'd  as  the  wind  grew 
loud  — 

But  earth-bound  winds  could  not  dismem- 
ber thee, 

Nor  shake  thy  frame  of  jewels  ;  I  have 
guess'd 

At  thy  strange  shape  and  function,  haply 
felt 

The  charm  of  that  old  myth  about  thy  belt 

And  sword  ;  but,  most,  my  spirit  was  pos- 
sess'd 

By  His  great  Presence,  Who  is  never  far 

From  his  light-bearers,  whether  man  or  star. 


TO   THE   GOSSAMER-LIGHT 

QUICK  gleam,  that  ridest  on  the  gossa- 
mer ! 

How  oft  I  see  thee,  with  thy  wavering  lance, 

Tilt  at  the  midges  in  their  evening  dance, 

A  gentle  joust  set  on  by  summer  air  ! 

How  oft  I  watch  thee  from  my  garden- 
chair  ! 

And,  failing  that,  I  search  the  lawns  and 
bowers, 

To  find  thee  floating  o'er  the  fruits  and 
flowers, 

And  doing  thy  sweet  work  in  silence  there. 

Thou  art  the  poet's  darling,  ever  sought 

In  the  fair  garden  or  the  breezy  mead  ; 

The  wind  dismounts  thee  not  ;  thy  buoyant 
thread 

Is  as  the  sonnet,  poising  one  bright  thought, 

That  moves  but  does  not  vanish  :  borne 
along 

Like  light,  —  a  golden  drift  through  all 
the  song  ! 


LETTY'S    GLOBE 

WHEN  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third 

glad  year, 
And  her  young,  artless   words   began   to 

flow, 
One    day   we    gave    the    child  a  color'd 

sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and 

know, 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and.land. 
She   patted   all   the   world  ;   old    empires 

peep'd 

Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 
Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she 

leap'd, 

And  laugh'd  and  prattled  in  her  world- 
wide bliss  ; 
But  when  we  turu'd  her  sweet  unlearned 

eye 

On  our  own  isle,  she  rais'd  a  joyous  cry, 
"  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty 's  home  is  there  !  " 
And,   while   she   hid   all  England  with   a 

kiss, 
Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair  \ 


HER   FIRST-BORN 

IT  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  de- 
light : 

And,  though  we  all  foresaw  his  early  doom, 
We  kept  the  fearful  secret  out  of  sight ; 
We   saw  the   canker,  but  she   kiss'd   the 

bloom. 
And  yet  it   might  not  be  :  we   could   not 

brook 

To  vex  her  happy  heart  with  vague  alarms, 
To   blanch   with    fear   her   fond    intrepid 

look, 
Or  send  a  thrill  through  those  encircling 

arms. 

She  smil'd  upon  him,  waking  or  at  rest  : 
She  could  not  dream  her  little  child  would 

die  : 
She   toss'd   him   fondly   with    an    upward 

eye: 

She  seem'd  as  buoyant  as  a  summer  spray, 
That  dances  with  a  blossom  on  its  breast, 
Nor  knows  how  soon  it  will  be  borne  away 


194 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


,  Horti  €emtp0on 


THE   DESERTED   HOUSE 

LIFE  and  Thought  have  gone  away 

Side  by  side, 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they ! 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 
In  the  windows  is  no  light  ; 
And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 
So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close, 

Or  thro'  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 

Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

Come  away  :  no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth, 
And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

Come  away  :  for  Life  and  Thought 

Here  no  longer  dwell ; 

But  in  a  city  glorious  — 
A  great  and  distant  city  —  have  bought 

A  mansion  incorruptible. 
Would  they  could  have  stay'd  with  us  ! 

THE    LOTOS-EATERS 

"  COURAGE  !  "  he  said,  and  pointed  toward 

the  land, 
"  This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shoreward 

soon." 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a  land 
In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 
All  round  the  coast   the  languid  air  did 

swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a  weary  dream. 
Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon  ; 
And  like  a  downward  smoke,  the  slender 

stream 
Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall 

did  seem. 

A  land  of  streams  !  some,  like  a  downward 

smoke, 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go ; 
And  some  thro'  wavering  lights  and  shadows 

broke, 
Rolling  a  slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 


They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 
From  the  inner  laud  :  far  off,  three  moun« 

tain-tops, 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow, 
Stood  sunset-flush'd  :  and,  dew'd  with  show- 
ery drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven 
copse. 

The  charmed  sunset  linger'd  low  adown 
In  the  red  West :  thro'  mountain  clefts  the 

dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border'd  with  palm,  and  many  a  winding 

vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  ; 
A  land  where  all  things  always  seem'd  the 

same  ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale, 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame, 
The   mild -eyed   melancholy  Lotos -eaters 


Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem, 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 

gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them, 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores  ;  and  if  his  fellow  spake, 
His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave  ; 
And  deep-asleep  he  seem'd,  yet  all  awake, 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did 

make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Between  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seem'd  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 
Then  some  one  said,  "  We  will  return  no 

more  ; " 

And  all  at  once  they  sang, "  Our  island  home 
Is  far  beyond  the  wave  ;  we  will  no  longei 

roam." 

CHORIC   SONG 


THERE  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


'95 


Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 
Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 
Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from 

the  blissful  skies. 
Here  are  cool  mosses  deep, 
And  thro'  the  moss  the  ivies  creep, 
And  in  the  stream  the  long-leav'd  flowers 

weep, 
And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs 

in  sleep. 


Why  are  we  weigh'd  upon  with  heaviness, 

And  utterly  consum'd  with  sharp  distress, 

While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weari- 
ness ? 

All  things  have  rest :  why  should  we  toil 
alone, 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan, 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  never  fold  our  wings, 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber's  holy  balm  ; 

Nor  harken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

"  There  is  no  joy  but  calm  ! " 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown 
of  things  ? 


Lo  !  in  the  middle  of  the  wood, 

The  folded  leaf  is  wooed  from  out  the  bud 

With  winds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 

Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 

Sun-steep'd  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 

Nightly  dew-fed  ;  and  turning  yellow 

Falls,  and  floats  aclown  the  air. 

Lo  !  sweeten'd  with  the  summer  light, 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 

Drops  in  a  silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days, 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  pl'ace, 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil, 

Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 


Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea. 
Death  is  the  end  of  life  ;  ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 
Let  us  alone.     Time  driveth  onward  fast, 
And  in  a  little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 
Let  us  alone.     What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 
All  things  are  taken  from  us.  and  become 


.Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.     What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ?     Is  there  any  peace 
In  ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 
All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the 

grave 

In  silence  ;  ripen,  fall,  and  cease  : 
Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death;  01 

dreamful  ease. 


How  sweet  it  were,  hearing  the  downward 
stream, 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 

Falling  asleep  in  a  half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 
light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the 
height ; 

To  hear  each  other's  whisper'd  speech  ; 

Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day, 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 

And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray  ; 

To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 

To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melan- 
choly ; 

To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  mem- 
ory, 

With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 

Heap'd  over  with  a  mound  of  grass, 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  urn 
of  brass  ! 


Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 
And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears  :  but  all  hath  suffer'd 

change  : 
For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are 

cold  : 

Our  sons  inherit  us  :  our  looks  are  strange  t 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 

j°y- 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 

Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 

sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten  years'  war  in  Troy, 
And   our   great    deeds,   as    half-forgotten 

things. 

Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle  ? 
Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 
The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 
'T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 
There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 


196 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain,  , 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath, 
Sore  task  to  hearts  worn  out  by  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the 
pilot-stars. 

VII 

But  propp'd  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly, 
How  sweet '(while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blow- 
ing lowly) 

With  half-dropp'd  eyelid  still, 
Beneath  a  heaven  dark  and  holy, 
To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing 

slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 
To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 
From  cave  to  cave  thro'   the  thick-twin'd 

vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color'd  water  falling 
Thro'  many  a  wov'n  acanthus-wreath  di- 
vine ! 
Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 

brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch'd  out  be- 
neath the  pine. 

VIII 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek  : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mel- 
lower tone  : 

Thro'  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yel- 
low Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  mo- 
tion we, 

Roll'd  to  starboard,  roll'd  to  larboard,  when 
the  surge  was  seething  free, 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his 
foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an 
equal  mind, 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie 
reclin'd 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of 
mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the 
bolts  are  hurl'd 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the 
clouds  are  lightly  curl'd 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the 
gleaming  world  : 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 
wasted  lands, 


Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake, 

roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands, 
Clanging   fights,  and   flaming   towns,  and 

sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 
But  they  smile,  they  find  a  music  centred 

in  a  doleful  song 
Steaming  up,  a  lamentation  and  an  ancient 

tale  of  wrong, 
Like  a  tale  of  little  meaning  tho'  the  words 

are  strong  ; 
Chanted  from  an  ill-us'd  race  of  men  that 

cleave  the  soil, 
Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 

enduring  toil, 
Storing   yearly  little  dues  of   wheat,  and 

wine  and  oil  ; 
Till   they  perish  and   they  suffer  —  some, 

't  is  whisper'd  —  down  in  hell 
Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 

valleys  dwell, 
Resting  weary  limbs   at   last   on  beds  of 

asphodel. 
Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than 

toil,  the  shore 
Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind 

and  wave  and  oar  ; 
Oh  rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not 

wander  more. 

ULYSSES 

IT  little  profits  that  an  idle  king, 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 

crags, 

Match'd  with  an  aged  wife,  I  mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a  savage  race, 
That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 

not  me. 

I  cannot  rest  from  travel  :  I  will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  :  all  times  I  have  eivjoy'd 
Greatly,  have  suffer'd  greatly,  both  with 

those 
That  lov'd  me,  and  alone  ;   on  shore,  and 

when 

Thro'  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vex'd  the  dim  sea.     I  am  become  a  name  ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a  hungry  heart 
Much  have  I  seen  and  known  :  cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor'd  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers, 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  that  I  have  met ; 
Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro' 


ALFRED,    LORD   TENNYSON 


197 


Gleams  that  untravell'd  world,  whose  mar- 
gin fades 

For  ever  and  for  ever  when  I  move. 
How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 
To  rust  unburnish'd,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 
As  tho'  to  breathe  were  life.     Life  pil'd  on 

life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  :  but  every  hour  is  sav'd 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 
A  bringer  of  new  things  ;  and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to   store   and  hoard 

myself, 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge  like  a  sinking  star, 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 
To  whom  I  leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-lov'd  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A  rugged  people,  and  thro'  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 
Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods, 
When  I  am  gone.     He  works  his  work,  I 

mine. 
There  lies  the  port ;  the  vessel  puffs  her 

sail  : 
There   gloom   the  dark  broad  seas.      My 

mariners, 
Souls   that  have  toil'd,  and  wrought,  and 

thought  with  me  — 
That  ever  with  a  frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  oppos'd 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  —  you  and  I  are 

•  old  ; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil  ; 
Death  closes  all  ;  but  something  ere  the  end, 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done, 
Xot  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks  : 
The  long  day  wanes  :  the  slow  moon  climbs  : 

the  deep 
Moans  round  with  many  voices.    Come,  my 

friends, 

'T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a  newer  world. 
Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ;  for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 


Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ;  and  tho' 
We  are  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old 

days 
Mov'd  earth   and    heaven,  that  which  we 

are,  we  are  : 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 

will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 

SIR   GALAHAD 

MY  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men, 

My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure, 
My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten, 

Because  my  heart  is  pure. 
The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 
The  splinter'd  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly, 

The  horse  and  rider  reel  :  • 

They  reel,  they  roll  in  clanging  lists, 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands, 
Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers, 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies'  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladies  bend 

On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 
For  them  I  battle  till  the  end, 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall : 
But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow'd  in  crypt  and  shrine  : 
I  never  felt  the  kiss  of  love, 

Nor  maiden's  hand  in  mine. 
More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 
So  keep  I  fair  thro'  faith  and  prayer 

A  virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  stormy  crescent  goes, 

A  light  before  me  swims, 
Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I  hear  a  noise  of  hymns  : 
Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I  ride  ; 

I  hear  a  voice,  but  none  are  there  ; 
The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide, 

The  tapers  burning  fair. 
Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean, 
The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 

And  solemn  chaunts  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 

I  find  a  magic  bark  ; 
I  leap  on  board  :  nc  helmsman  steers  : 

I  float  till  all  :s  dark. 


198 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


A  gentle  sound,  an  awful  light  ! 

Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 
With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 
Ah,  blessed  vision  !  blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 
As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 

Thro'  dreaming  towns  I  go, 
The  cock  crows  ere  the  Christmas  morn, 

The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 
The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads, 

And,  ringing,  springs   from   brand  and 

mail  ; 
But  o'er  the  dark  a  glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 
I  leave  the  plain,  I  climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields  ; 
But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 

Fly  o'er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A  maiden  knight  —  to. me  is  given 

Such  hope,  I  know  not  fear  ; 
I  yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 

That  often  meet  me  here. 
I  muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease, 

Pure  spaces  cloth'd  in  living  beams, 
Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace, 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams  ; 
And,  stricken  by  an  angel's  hand, 

This  mortal  armor  that  I  wear, 
This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes, 

Are  touch'd,  are  turn'd  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky, 

And  thro'  the  mountain-walls 
A  rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 
Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 

Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 
"  O  just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  !  the  prize  is  near." 
So  pass  I  hostel,  hall,  and  grange  ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 
All-arm'd  I  ride,  whate'er  betide, 

Until  I  find  the  holy  Grail. 


SIR    LAUNCELOT     AND     QUEEN 
GUINEVERE 

LIKE  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 


The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sun-lit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh'd  between, 
And  far,  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gather'd  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  liunet  pip'd  his  song  : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheel'd  along, 
Hush'd  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong ; 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 
Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro'  the  coverts  of  the  deer, 
With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem'd  a  part  of  joyous  Spring  ; 
A  gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore, 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 
A  light-green  tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 

Clos'd  in  a  golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net, 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet, 

In  mosses  mix'd  with  violet 

Her  cream-white  mule  his  pastern  set : 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm'd  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings, 
When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 

With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

• 

As  fast  she  fled  thro'  sun  and  shade, 
The  happy  winds  upon  her  play'd, 
Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 
She  look'd  so  lovely,  as  she  sway'd 

The  rein  with  dainty  finger-tips, 
A  man  had  given  all  other  bliss, 
And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 
To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 

Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

BREAK,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


ALFRED,  LORD   TENNYSON 


199 


O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


SONGS    FROM   "THE  PRINCESS" 

AS   THRO'   THE   LAND 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
Oh,  we  fell  out  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 
And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears  ! 
For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
Oh,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

SWEET   AND   LOW 

SWEET  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 
Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest; 

Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 


BUGLE   SONG 

THE  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying? 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

TEARS,    IDLE   TEARS 

TEARS,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 

mean, 

Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail,, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 

dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering 

square  ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret  ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more, 


200 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


THY   VOICE   IS   HEARD 

THY  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands  ; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  : 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 

ASK   ME   NO   MORE 

ASK  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the 

sea  ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and 

take  the  shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape  ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :    what  answer  should  I 

give  ? 

I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee 

die! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are 

seal'd  : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in 

vain  : 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 


ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


BURY  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire's  lamentation, 
Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a  mighty 

nation, 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall, 
Warriors  carry  the  warrior's  pall, 
And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 


Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  de- 
plore ? 
Here,  in  streaming  London's  central  roar. 


Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for, 
And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 
Echo  round  his  bones  for  evermore. 


Ill 

Lead  out  the  pageant :  sad  and  slow. 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go, 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it 

And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow ; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

IV 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last, 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 
With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 
O  friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  mute  : 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood, 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a  common  good. 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 
Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 
Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence, 
Great  in  council  and  great  in  war, 
Foremost  captain  of  his  time, 
Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 
And,  as  the  greatest  only  are, 
In  his  simplicity  sublime. 
O  good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 
O  voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 

drew, 

O  iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 
O  fall'n  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds 

that  blew  ! 

Such  was  he  whom  we  deplore. 
The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o'er. 
The  great  World-victor's  victor  will  be  seer 


All  is  over  and  done  : 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
England,  for  thy  son. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd. 
Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 
And  render  him  to  the  mould. 
Under  the  cross  of  gold 
That  shines  over  city  and  river, 
There  he  shall  rest  for  ever 
Among  the  wise  and  the  bold. 
Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


2OI 


And  a  reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  its  blazon'd  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll'd  : 

And  a  deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoll'd  ; 

And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 

roll'd 

Thro'  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 
A.nd  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss  ; 
He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 
For  many  a  time  in  many  a  clime 
His  captain's-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  : 
When  he  with  those  deep  voices  wrought, 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 
With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 

taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim 
In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 
Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame, 
In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same, 
A  man  of  well-attemper'd  frame. 
O  civic  muse,  to  such  a  name, 
To  such  a  name  for  ages  long, 
To  such  a  name, 

Preserve  a  broad  approach  of  fame, 
And  ever-echoing  avenues  of  song. 

VI 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like   an  honor'd 

guest, 
With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 

and  with  priest, 
With  a  nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  niy 

rest? 

Mighty  Seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 
Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 

man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  muffled  drums, 
To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 
For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  ; 
His  foes  were  thine  ;  he  kept  us  free  ; 
O  give  him  welcome,  this  is  he 
Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites, 
And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 
For  this  is  England's  greatest  son, 
He  that  gain'd  a  hundred  fights, 
Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 
This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 


Clash'd  with  his  fiery  few  and  won  ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a  later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 

Of  his  labor'd  rampart  lines, 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay, 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew, 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 

Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms, 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o'er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 

Beyond  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow'd  up  in  valley  and  glen 

With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men, 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a  war  had  such  a  close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 

In   anger,    wheel'd   on   Europe-shadowing 

wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 
Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty's  iron  crown 
On  that  loud   sabbath    shook   the    spoiler 

down  ; 

A  day  of  onsets  of  despair  I 
Dash'd  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam'd  themselves 

away; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 
Thro'  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash'd  a  sudden  jubilant  ray, 
And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  over- 
threw. 

So  great  a  soldier  taught  us  there, 
What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  Seaman,  tender  and  true, 
And  pxire  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 
O  saviour  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 
O  shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 
If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a  spirit  among  things  divine, 
If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 
Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine  1 
And  thro'  the  centuries  let  a  people's  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 
A  people's  voice, 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 
A  people's  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
Attest  their  great  commander's  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  uaine. 


202 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


VII 

A  people's  voice  !  we  are  a  people  yet. 
Tho'  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreasus  for- 
get* 
Confus'd   by   brainless   mobs   and  lawless 

Powers  ; 
Thank  Him  who  isl'd  us  here,  and  roughly 

set 
His   Briton   in   blown   seas   and   storming 

showers, 
We  have  a  voice,  with  which  to  pay  the 

debt 

Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept 

it  ours. 
And  keep  it  ours,  O  God,  from  brute  con- 

.  trol  ; 
O  Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the 

soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole, 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom  sown 
Betwixt  a  people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That   sober   freedom  out  of   which   there 

springs 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of 

mind, 
Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns 

be  just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  led  your  hosts  ; 
He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 
Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall  ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
For  ever  ;  and  whatever  tempests  lour 
For  ever  silent  ;  even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent  ;  yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 

spoke  ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour, 
Nor  palter'd  with  Eternal  God  for  power  ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Thro'  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low  ; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 
Who  never  spoke  against  a  foe  ; 
Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  re- 
buke 
All   great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the 

right : 
Truth -teller  was    our    England's   Alfred 

nam'd  ; 


Truth-lover  was  our  English 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  sham'd. 


VIII 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glorious  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow'd  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 
He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower'd  all  her  stars, 
And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great, 
But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting 
For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes, 
He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses. 
Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 
He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 
On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands, 
Thro'  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has 

won 

His  path  upward,  and  prevail'd, 
Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scal'd 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and 

sun. 

Such  was  he  :  his  work  is  done. 
But  while  the  races- of  mankind  endure, 
Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land, 
And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 

pure  : 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro'  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory  : 
And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  sav'd 

from  shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 
And  when  the  long-illumin'd  cities  flames 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader's  fame, 
With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 


IX 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 
By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


203 


Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  : 

O  peace,  it  is  a  day  of  pain 

For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 
brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 

Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 

More  than  is  of  man's  degree 

Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 

At  this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere  ; 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 

From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 

And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 

For  such  a  wise  humility 

As  befits  a  solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 

The  tides  of  Music's  golden  sea 

Setting  toward  eternity, 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we, 

Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 

There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 

Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho'  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 

And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 

Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will  ; 

Tho'  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads 
roll 

Round  us,  each  with  different  powers, 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours, 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul  ? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our 
trust. 

Hush,  the  Dead  March  wails  in  the  people's 
ears  : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs 
and  tears  : 

The  black  earth  yawns  :  the  mortal  disap- 
pears ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust  ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem'd  so  great. — 

Gone  ;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 

Of  the  force  he  made  his  own 

Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 

Something  far  advanced  in  State, 

And  that  he  wears  a  truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

Speak  no  more  of  his  renown, 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him, 

Uod  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 


THE    CHARGE    OF    THE     LIGHT 
BRIGADE 

HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said  : 
Into  tli£  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! " 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  bluuder'd  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke  \ 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell. 


204 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

• 

NORTHERN    FARMER 

OLD   STYLE 

WHEER  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin' 

'ere  aloan  ? 
Noorse  ?    thourt  nowt  o'  a  noorse  :  whoy, 

Doctor's  abean  an'  agoan  : 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw  moor  aale  :  but 

I  beant  a  fool : 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  a-gawin'  to 

break  my  rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what 's 

nawways  true  : 
Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things 

that  a  do. 
I  've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I 

bean  'ere. 
An'  I  've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight 

for  foorty  year. 

Parson  's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere 

o'  my  bed. 
"  The  amoighty  's  a  taJikin  o'  you l  to  'isse'n, 

my  friend,"  a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an 's  toithe  were 

due,  an'  I  gied  it  in  bond  : 
I  done  my  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  loud. 

•  Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.  I  reckons  I  'annot  sa 
mooch  to  larn. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Har- 
ris's barne. 

Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire 
an'  choorch  an'  staate, 

An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin 
the  raate. 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  chooch  afoor  moy 

Sally  wur  dead, 
An'  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a 

buzzard-clock  2  ower  my  'ead, 
1  ou  as  in  hour.         a  Cockchafer.         *  Bittern. 


An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I 
thowt  a  'ad  summut  to  saiiy, 

An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said 
an'  I  coom'd  away. 

Bessy  Harris's  barne  !  tha  knaws  she  laaid 

it  to  mea. 
Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad 

un,  shea. 
'Siver,  I  kep  'um,  I  kep  'um,  my  lass,  tha 

mun  understond  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um  as  I  'a  done  boy 

the  lond. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says 

it  easy  an'  freea, 
"  The  almoighty  's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'isse'n, 

my  friend,"  says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun 

said  it  in  'aaste  : 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'  I  'a 

stubb'd  Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw, 

tha  was  not  born  then  ; 
Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'card  'um 

mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,8  fur  I  'eard  'um 

about  an'  about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raav'd 

an'  rembled  'um  out. 

Reaper's  it  wur  ;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer 

a-laaid  of  'is  faace 
Down  i'  the  woild  enemies  4  afoor  I  coom'd 

to  the  plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby  —  toaner  6  'ed  shot  'um 

as  dead  as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize  —  but 

git  ma  my  aale. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste  :  theer  warn't 

not  feead  for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook 

at  it  now  — 
Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer' s 

lots  o'  feead, 
Fourscoor l  yows  upon  it   an'  some  on  it 

down  i'  seead.6 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it 's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a 

stubb'd  it  at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  ploM 

thruff  it  an'  all, 

4  Anemones.         "  One  or  other.         °  Clover. 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


205 


If  goclamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let 

ma  aloau, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's, 

an'  lond  o'  my  oan. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a 's  doin' 
a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 

I  beaut  wouu  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yon- 
der a  pea  ; 

An'  Squoire  'till  be  sa  mad  an'  all  —  a'  dear 
a'  dear  ! 

And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michael- 
mas thutty  year. 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a 

'aapoth  o'  sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins  —  a  uiver 

mended  a  fence  : 
But  godamoighty  a  inoost  taake  mea  an' 

taake  ma  now 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby 

hoalms  to  plow ! 

Loook  'ow  quoloty  srnoiles  when  they  seeas 

ma  a  passiu'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen,  naw  doubt,  "  what  a  man  a 

bea  sewer-loy  ! " 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean  to  Squoire  sin 

fust  a  coom'd  to  the  'All  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy 

duty  boy  hall. 

Squoire  's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons 

'nil  'a  to  wroite, 
For  whoa  's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot 

muddles  ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer  I  bea,  thot  a  weant  niver  give 

it  to  Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins  —  a  niver  rem- 

bles  the  stoans. 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap 

wi'  'is  kittle  o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi' 

the  Divil's  oan  team.  f 

Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they 

says  is  sweet, 
But   sin'   I    muu    doy    I    mun   doy,   for   I 

couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring 

ma  the  aale  ? 
Doctor 's  a'  toattler,  lass,  an  a 's  hallus  i'  the 

owd  taale  ; 


I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws 

naw  moor  nor  a  floy  ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy 

I  mun  doy. 


THE    DAISY 

WRITTEN   AT   EDINBURGH 

O  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine, 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show'd 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road  ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heav'd  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue  ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-bell'd  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem'd  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim  ; 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stay'd  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleas'd  us  most, 
Not  the  clipp'd  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 
A  moulder'd  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flush'd  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 


206 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


We  lov'd  that  hall  tho'  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Geiiovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 
In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours  ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter'd, 
Thro'  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  cross'd  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma  ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  look'd  the  Lombard  piles  ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles.    • 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazon'd  fires, 

The  height,   the  space,  the   gloom,    the 

glory  ! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires  ! 

1  climb'd  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush'd,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencill'd  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como  ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  'lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded  ;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way, 

Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept, 
As  on  The  Lariano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodoliud,  where  we  slept ; 


Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch'd  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reach'd  the  highest  summit 
I  pluck'd  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea  ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by  : 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and  Earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me^ 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


THE   FLOWER 

ONCE  in  a  golden  hour 
I  cast  to  earth  a  seed. 

Up  there  came  a  flower, 
The  people  said,  a  weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro'  my  garden-bower, 

And  muttering  discontent 
Curs'd  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  wore  a  crown  of  light, 

But  thieves  from  o'er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow'd  it  far  and  wide 

By  every  town  and  tower, 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


207 


Till  all  the  people  cried, 
"  Splendid  is  the  flower." 

Read  my  little  fable  : 
He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now, 
For  all  have  got  the  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough, 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a  weed. 


COME    INTO    THE    GARDEN, 
MAUD 

COME  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  rose  is  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 
And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 

Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 
Till  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  "  There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play." 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  "  The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
0  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,"  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

"  For  ever  and  ever,  mine." 


And   the  soul  of   the   rose  went   into  my 

blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall  : 
And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 

the  wood, 
Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all  ; 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 

In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 
To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 

And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake 

As  the  pimpernel  doz'd  on  the  lea  ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,   little  head,  sunning  over  with 

curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 
The   red   rose    cries,    "  She  is  near,  she  is 
near  ; " 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late  ; " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear  ; " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead  ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


208 


,  COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


THE  SHELL 
FROM  "MAUD" 

SEE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  f  airily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro'  his  dim  water- world  ? 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 


THE   PASSING  OF  ARTHUR 

FROM     "  IDYLLS    OF    THE    KING  " 

THEN  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky 


Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were 

ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 

forms, 
Black-stoPd,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  — 

by  these 
Three   Queens   with  crowns  of  gold  :  and 

from  them  rose 

A  cry  that  shiver'd  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 


Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where   no   one 

comes, 
Or  hath    come,  since    the  making  of  the 

world. 

Then  murmur'd  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the 

barge." 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those 

three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 

and  wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 
And  loos'd  the  shatter'd  casque,  and  chaf'd 

his  hands, 
And  call'd  him  by  his  name,  complaining 

loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  a  brow 
Strip 'd  with  dark  blood  :  for  all  his   face 

was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither'd  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 

east  ; 
And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash'd  with 

drops 
Of   onset  ;   and    the    light    and    lustrous 

curls  — 

That  made  his  forehead  like  a  rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne  —  were  parch'd 

with  dust  ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix'd  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 

his  lips. 

So  like  a  shatter'd  column  lay  the  King  ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in 

rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro'  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my 

eyes  ? 

For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When    every    morning    brought    a   noble 

chance, 
And   every   chance    brought   out   a   noble 

.   knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light 

that  led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolv'd 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world, 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


209 


And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the 

years, 
Among    new     men,   strange    faces,   other 

minds." 

And  slowly  answer'd   Arthur   from  the 

barge  : 
**  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 

new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 

world. 

Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  liv'd  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have 

done 
May  He  within   himself  make   pure  !  but 

thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again, 
Pray    for     my     soul.     More     things    are 

wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams   of.     Wherefore, 

let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of 

prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and    those  who  call 

them  friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  see'st  —  if  indeed  I  go 
(For    all    my    mind    is    clouded    with    a 

doubt) — 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 
Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow'd,  happy,  fair  with  orchard 

lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crown'd  with  summer 

sea, 
Where   I   will    heal   me   of  my   grievous 

wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Mov'd   from   the   brink,    like   some   full- 
breasted  swan 

That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death, 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold    plume,  and    takes 

the  flood 
With     swarthy     webs.     Long     stood    Sir 

Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 


Look'd  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 

dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

RIZPAH 

WAILING,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over 

land  and  sea  — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  "  O  mother, 

come  out  to  me." 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he 

knows  that  I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,  and  the 

full  moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear  ;  they  would 

spy  us  out  of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm 

rushing  over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am 

led  by  the  creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find 

myself  drench'd  with  the  rain. 

Anything  fallen  again  ?    nay  —  what  was 

there  left  to  fall  ? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  number'd 

the  bones,  I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What   am  I  saying  ?   and  what  are  you  f 

do  you  come  as  a  spy  ? 
Falls  ?  what  falls  ?  who  knows  ?     As  the 

tree  falls  so  must  it  lie. 

Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  has  she  been  ? 

you  —  what  have  you  heard  ? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never  have 

spoken  a  word. 

0  —  to  pray   with   me  —  yes  —  a  lady  — 

none  of  their  spies  — 

But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and 
begun  to  darken  my  eyes. 

Ah  —  you,  that  have  liv'd  so  soft,  what 
should  you  know  of  the  night, 

The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the 
bitter  frost  and  the  fright  ? 

1  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep  — 

you  were  only  made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather 'd  my  baby  together — and 
now  you  may  go  your  way. 

Nay  —  for  it  's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to  sit 

by  an  old  dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have 

only  an  hour  of  life. 


210 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he 

went  out  to  die. 
"  They  dar'd  me  to  do  it,"  he  said,  and  he 

never  has  told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipp'd  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once 

when  he  was  but  a  child  — 
u  The  farmer  dar'd  me  to  do  it,"  he  said  ; 

he  was  always  so  wild  — 
And    idle  —  and    could  n't   be   idle  —  my 

Willy  —  he  never  could  rest. 
The  King  should  have   made  him  a  sol- 
dier ;  he  would  have  been  one  of  his 

best. 

But  he  liv'd  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and 

they  never  would  let  him  be  good  ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail, 

and  he  swore  that  he  would  ; 
And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse, 

and  when  all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows  —  I  '11  none 

of  it,  said  my  son. 

I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge   and   the 

lawyers.     I  told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth  —  but  they  kill'd  him, 

they  kill'd  him  for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show  — 

he  had  always  borne  a  good  name  — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief  —  and  then  put 

away  —  is  n't  that  enough  shame  ? 
Dust  to  dust  —  low  down  —  let  us  hide  ! 

but  they  set  him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare 

at  him,  passing  by. 
God  'ill  pardon  the  hell-black  raven   and 

horrible  fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who 

kill'd  him  and  hang'd  him  there. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had  bid 

him  my  last  goodbye  ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the   door   of   his  cell, 

"  O  mother  !  "  I  heard  him  cry. 
I  could  n't   get  back  tho'  I  tried,  he  had 

something  further  to  say, 
And    now   I   never   shall    know   it.     The 

jailer  forced  me  away. 

Then  since  I  could  n't  but  hear  that  cry  of 

my  boy  that  was  dead, 
They  seiz'd  me   and   shut   me   up  :     they 

fasten'd  me  down  on  my  bed. 
"   Mother,  O  mother  ! "  —  he  call'd  in  the 

dark  to  me  year  after  year  — 


They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me  — 

you  know  that  I  could  n't  but  hear  ; 

And  then  at   the  last   they   found   I   had 
grown  so  stupid  and  still 

They     let    me    abroad     again  —  but   the 
creatures  had  work'd  their  will. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my 

bone  was  left  — 
I  stole  them   all   from  the  lawyers  —  and 

you,  will  you  call  it  a  theft  ?  — 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had   suck'd  me, 

the    bones    that    had    laugh'd   and 

had  cried  — 
Theirs  ?      O   no  !     they  are    mine  —  not 

theirs  —  they  had  mov'd  in  my  side. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scar'd  by  the  bones  ? 

I  kiss'd  'em,  I  buried  'em  all  — 
I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old  —  in  the  night 

by  the  churchyard  wall. 
My   Willy    'ill   rise   up   whole   when   the 

trumpet  of  judgment  'ill  sound, 
But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid 

him  in  holy  ground. 

They  would   scratch  him  up  —  they  would 

hangliim  again  on  the  cursed  tree. 
Sin  ?     O  yes  —  we  are  sinners,  I  know  — 

let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's 

good  will  toward  men — 
"  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord  " 

—  let  me  hear  it  again  ; 
"  Full   of  compassion   and  mercy  —  long- 
suffering."     Yes,  O  yes  ! 
For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder  —  the 

Saviour  lives  but  to  bless. 
He  '11  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for 

the  worst  of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last  —  I  have  heard  it 

in  church  —  and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering  —  O  long-suffering  —  yes,  as  the 

Lord  must  know, 
Year  after  year  in  the  mist  and  the  wind 

and  the  shower  and  the  snow. 

Heard,  have  you  ?  what  ?  they  have  told 

you  he  never  repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it  ?  are  they  his  mother  ? 

are  you  of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have   you   ever  heard,   when  the 

storm  on  the  downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and  th« 

sea  that  'ill  moan  like  a  man  ? 


ALFRED,   LORD   TENNYSON 


211 


Election,  Election  and  Reprobation  —  it's 

all  very  well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall 

not  find  him  in  Hell. 
For  I  car'd  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the 

Lord  has  look'd  into  my  care, 
And  He  means  me,  I  'm  sure,  to  be  happy 

with  Willy,  I  know  not  where. 

And  if  he  be  lost  —  but  to  save  my  soul, 

that  is  all  your  desire  : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my 

boy  be  gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark  —  go,  go, 

you  may  leave  me  alone  — 
You   never  have  borne  a  child  —  you  are 

just  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  think  that 
you  mean  to  be  kind, 

But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my 
Willy's  voice  in  the  wind  — 

The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright  —  he  us'd 
but  to  call  in  the  dark, 

And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church 
and  not  from  the  gibbet  —  for  hark  ! 

Nay  —  you  can  hear  it  yourself  —  it  is 
coming  —  shaking  the  walls  — 

Willy  —  the  moon  's  in  a  cloud  —  Good- 
night. I  am  going.  He  calls. 


FLOWER  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


SONG  IN  "THE  FORESTERS"* 

THERE  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts, 

Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land' like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

And  these  will  strike  for  England 
And  man  and  maid  be  free 


To  foil  and  spoil  the  tyrant 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 
There  is  no  land  like  England 

Where'er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 
There  are  no  maids  like  the  English  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

And  these  shall  wed  with  freemen. 
And  all  their  sons  be  free, 

To  sing  the  songs  of  England 
Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 


VASTNESS 

MANY  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs 
after  many  a  vanish'd  face, 

Many  a  planet  by  many  a  sun  may  roll  with 
the  dust  of  a  vanish'd  race. 

Raving  politics,  never  at  rest  —  as  this  poor 
earth's  pale  history  runs,  — 

What  is  it  all  but  a  trouble  of  ants  in  the 
gleam  of  a  million  million  of  suns  ? 

Lies  upon  this  side,  lies  upon  that  side, 
truthless  violence  mourn'd  by  the 
Wise, 

Thousands  of  voices  drowning  his  own  in  a 
popular  torrent  of  lies  upon  lies  ; 

Stately  purposes,  valor  in  battle,  glorious 

annals  of  army  and  fleet, 
Death  for  the  right  cause,  death   for  the 

wrong  cause,    trumpets  of   victory, 

groans  of  defeat ; 

Innocence    seeth'd  in   her   mother's   milks 

and     Charity    setting    the    martyi 

aflame  ; 
Thraldom  who  walks  with    the  banner  of 

Freedom,  and   recks  not   to  ruin  a 

realm  in  her  name  ; 

Faith  at  her  zenith,  or  all  but  lost  in  the 

gloom   of  doubts   that  darken  the 

schools  ; 
Craft  with  a  bunch  of  all-heal  in  her  hand, 

follow'd  up  by  her  vassal  legion  of 

fools  : 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  MACMILLAN  &  Co. 


212 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Trade  flying  over  a  thousand  seas  with  her 
spice  and  her  vintage,  her  silk  and 
her  corn  ; 

Desolate  offing,  sailorless  harbors,  famish- 
ing populace,  wharves  forlorn  ; 

Star  of  the  morning,  Hope  in  the  sunrise  ; 

gloom  of  the  evening,  Life  at  a  close  ; 
Pleasure  who  flaunts  on  her  wide  downway 

with  her  flying  robe  and  her  poison'd 


Pain,  that  has  crawl'd  from  the  corpse  of 

Pleasure,  a  worm  which  writhes  all 

day,  and  at  night 
Stirs  up  again  in  the  heart  of  the  sleeper, 

and  stings  him  back  to  the  curse  of 

the  light  ; 

Wealth  with  his  wines  and  his  wedded 
harlots  ;  honest  Poverty,  bare  to  the 
bone  ; 

Opulent  Avarice,  lean  as  Poverty  ;  Flattery 
gilding  the  rift  in  a  throne  ; 

Fame  blowing  out  from  her  golden  trum- 
pet a  jubilant  challenge  to  Time  and 
to  Fate  ; 

Slander,  her  shadow,  sowing  the  nettle  on 
all  the  laurell'd  graves  of  the  Great  ; 

Love  for  the  maiden,  crown'd  with  mar- 
riage, no  regrets  for  aught  that  has 
been, 

Household  happiness,  gracious  children, 
debtless  competence,  golden  mean  ; 

National  hatreds  of  whole  generations,  and 
pigmy  spites  of  the  village  spire  ; 

Vows  that  will  last  to  the  last  death-ruckle, 
and  vows  that  are  snapp'd  in  a  mo- 
ment of  fire  ; 

He  that  has  liv'd  for  the  lust  of  a  minute, 
and  died  in  the  doing  it,  flesh  with- 
out mind  j 

He  that  has  nail'd  all  flesh  to  the  Cross,  till 
Self  died  out  in  the  love  of  his  kind  ; 

Spring    and     Summer   and    Autumn   and 

Winter,  and  all  these  old  revolutions 

of  earth  ; 
All     new-old     revolutions    of     Empire  — 

change  of  the  tide  —  what  is  all  of  it 

worth  ? 


What  the  philosophies,  all  the  sciences, 
poesy,  varying  voices  of  prayer  ? 

All  that  is  noblest,  all  that  is  basest,  all 
that  is  filthy  with  all  that  is  fair  ? 

What  is  it  all,  if  we  all  of  us  end  but  in 
being  our  own  corpse-coffins  at  last, 

Swallow'd  in  Vastness,  lost  in  Silence, 
drown'd  in  the  deeps  of  a  meaning- 
less Past  ? 

What  but  a  murmur  of  gnats  in  the  gloom, 
or  a  moment's  anger  of  bees  in  their 
hive  ?  — 

Peace,  let  it  be  !  for  I  loved  him,  and  love 
him  for  ever  :  the  dead  are  not  dead 
but  alive. 

THE   SILENT   VOICES* 

WHEN  the  dumb  Hour,  cloth'd  in  black, 
Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed, 
Call  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  Voices  of  the  dead, 
Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 
And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone  ! 
Call  me  rather,  silent  Voices, 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on  ! 

CROSSING  THE   BAR 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  bound- 
less deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and 
Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  cross'd  the  bar. 


*  Copyright,  1892,  by  MACMILLAN  &  Co. 


BEACONSFIELD  —  WESTWOOD 


213 


WELLINGTON 


of 

(BENJAMIN  D'ISRAELI) 

The  breath  ordain'd  of  Nature.     Thy  calm 


NOT  only  that  thy  puissant  arm  could  bind 
The  tyrant  of  a  world ;  and,  conquering  Fate, 
Enfranchise  Europe,  do  I  deem  thee  great  ; 
But  that  in  all  thy  actions  I  do  find 
Exact  propriety  :  no  gusts  of  mind 
Fitful  and  wild,  but  that  continuous  state 
Of  order'd  impulse  mariners  await 
In  some  benignant  and  enriching  wind,  — 


O  WIND   OF   THE  MOUNTAIN! 

0  WIND  of  the  Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  ! 

1  have  a  prayer  to  whisper  in  thine  ear  : — 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !      Be    silent,  syca- 
more ! 

Cease  thy  wild  waving,  ash-tree,  old  and 

hoar  ! 
Flow  softly,  stream  !      My  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
O  Wind   of   the   Mountain,  Wind  -of  the 

Mountain,  hear  ! 

In  the  dull  city,  by  the  lowland  shore, 
Pale  grows  the  cheek,  so  rosy-fresh  of  yore. 
Woe  for  the  child  —  the  fair  blithe-hearted 

child  — 
Once    thy  glad   playmate    on    the    breezy 

wild! 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
O  Wind   of   the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  ! 

Pale  grows  the  cheek,  and  dim  the  sunny 

eyes, 

And  the  voice  falters,  and  the  laughter  dies. 
Woe  for  the  child  !     She  pines,  on  that  sad 

shore, 

For  the  free  hills  and  happy  skies  of  yore. 
Hush,  river,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint  with 

fear  — 
O  Wind   of  the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear  i 


mien 
Recalls  old  Rome,  as  much  as  thy  high 

deed  ; 

Duty  thine  only  idol,  and  serene 
When  all  are  troubled  ;  in  the  utmost  need 
Prescient  ;  thy  country's  servant  ever  seen, 
Yet  sovereign  of    thyself,   whate'er  may 

speed. 


O  Wind  of  the  Mountain,  thou  art  swift 

and  strong  — 
Follow,  for  love's  sake,  though  the  way  be 

long. 

Follow,  oh  !  follow,  over  down  and  dale, 
To  the  far  city  in  the  lowland  vale. 
Hush,  pine-tree,  hush  !  —  my  voice  is  faint 

with  fear  — 
O  Wind   of  the  Mountain,  Wind   of  the 

Mountain,  hear ! 

Kiss  the  dear  lips,  and  bid  the  laughters 

rise  ; 
Flush  the  wan  cheek,  and  brighten  the  dim 

eyes; 
Sing  songs  of  home,  and  soon,  from  grief 

and  pain, 
Win  back   thy  playmate,   blessed   Wind, 

'  again  ! 
Win  back  my  darling  —  while  away  my 

fear  — 
O  Wind   of  the   Mountain,  Wind  of  the 

Mountain,  hear ! 


IN   THE   GOLDEN    MORNING   OF 
THE    WORLD 

IN  the  golden  morning  of  the  world, 
When  creation's  freshness  was  unfurl'd, 
Had  earth  truer,  fonder  hearts  than  now  ? 
One,  at  least,  in  this  our  day,  I  know, 
(Whisper  soft,  ah  !  benedicite  /) 
Faithful-fond  as  any  heart  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world. 


214 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


And  were  faces,  in  that  orient  time, 
Flush'd,    in   sooth,  with  more  resplendent 

prime, 

More  consummate  loveliness  than  now  ? 
Nay,  one  maiden,  face,  at  least,  I  know 
(Whisper  soft,  ah  !  benedicite  !) 
Just  as  fair  as  any  face  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world. 


But  dark  shadows  reign,  and  storms  are 

rife, 

In  the  once  serene  clear  heaven  of  life. 
Oh  !  sweet  angel,  at  the  shining  gate, 
By  God's  mercy,  keep  one  earthly  fate, 
One  dear  life  —  ah  I  benedicite  ! 
Happy,  calm,  as  any  such  could  be 
In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world  1 


IN   A   LECTURE-ROOM 

AWAY,  haunt  thou  not  me, 

Thou  vain  Philosophy  1 

Little  hast  thou  bestead, 

Save  to  perplex  the  head, 

And  leave  the  spirit  dead. 

Unto  thy  broken  cisterns  wherefore  go, 

While  from  the  secret  treasure-depths  be- 
low, 

Fed  by  the  skyey  shower, 

And  clouds  that  sink  and  rest  on  hill-tops 
high, 

Wisdom  at  once,  and  Power, 

Are  welling,  bubbling  forth,  unseen,  in- 
cessantly ? 

Why  labor  at  the  dull  mechanic  oar, 

When  the  fresh  breeze  is  blowing, 

And  the  strong  current  flowing, 

Right  onward  to  the  Eternal  Shore  ? 

A  PROTEST 

LIGHT  words  they  were,  and  lightly,  falsely 

said  ; 
She  heard  them,   and   she   started,  —  and 

she  rose, 
As    in    the    act    to    speak  ;    the    sudden 

thought 

And  unconsider'd  impulse  led  her  on. 
In  act  to  speak  she  rose,  but  with  the  sense 
Of  all  the  eyes  of  that  mix'd  company 
Now  suddenly  turn'd  upon  her,  some  with 

age 

Harden'd  and  dull'd,  some  cold  and  criti- 
cal ; 

Some  in  whom  vapors  of  their  own  conceit, 
As  moist    malarious    mists  the  heavenly 

stars, 
Still  blotted  out  their   good,  the   best    at 

best 


By  frivolous  laugh  and  prate  conventional 

All  too  untun'd  for  all  she  thought  to 
say, — 

With  such  a  thought  the  mantling  blood  to 
her  cheek 

Flush'd  up,  and  o'er-flush'd  itself,  blank 
night  her  soul 

Made  dark,  and  in  her  all  her  purpose 
swoon'd. 

She  stood  as  if  for  sinking.     Yet  anon, 

With  recollections  clear,  august,  sublime, 

Of  God's  great  truth,  and  right  immuta- 
ble, 

Which,  as  obedient  vassals,  to  her  mind 

Came  summon'd  of  her  will,  in  self-nega- 
tion 

Quelling  her  troublous  earthly  conscious- 
ness, 

She  queen'd  it  o'er  her  weakness.  At  the 
spell 

Back  roll'd  the  ruddy  tide,  and  leaves  her 
cheek 

Paler  than  erst,  and  yet  not  ebbs  so  far 

But  that  one  pulse  of  one  indignant 
thought 

Might  hurry  it  hither  in  flood.  So  as  she 
stood 

She  spoke.  God  in  her  spoke,  and  made 
her  heard. 

QUA   CURSUM  VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalm'd  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 
Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 


ARTHUR  HUGH   CLOUGH 


215 


E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 
Brief  absence  join'd  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dtad  of  night  their  sails  were  fill'd, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steer'd  : 
Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  will'd, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appear'd  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !  On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !  In  light,  in  darkness  too, 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass 

guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last ! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 
O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 


FROM  "THE  BOTHIE  OF  TOBER- 
NA-VUOLICH" 

THE   BATHERS 

THERE  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its  name, 
lest  inquisitive  tourist 

Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at 
last  into  guide-books, 

Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplor'd 
in  the  folds  of  great  mountains, 

Falling  two  miles  through  rowan  and 
stunted  alder,  enveloped 

Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine, 
where  broad  and  ample 

Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heath- 
ery slopes  on  both  sides  : 

Broad  and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional 
falls  and  narrows  ; 

But,  where  the  glen  of  its  course  ap- 
proaches the  vale  of  the  river, 

Met  and  block'd  by  a  huge  interposing 
mass  of  granite, 

Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging  up, 
and  raging  onward, 

Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  nar- 
row a  lady  would  step  it. 


There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a 

wooden  bridge  goes, 
Carrying   a    path   to   the    forest ;    below, 

three  hundred  yards,  say, 
Lower    in    level    some    twenty-five    feet, 

through  flats  of  shingle, 
Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in 

the  open  valley. 
But   in   the   interval   here    the   boilingp 

pent-up  water 
Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a 

basin, 
Ten  feet  wide   and    eighteen   long,  with 

whiteness  and  fury 
Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure, 

a  mirror  ; 
Beautiful  there  for  the  color  deriv'd  from 

green  rocks  under  ; 
Beautiful,   most   of   all,   where    beads    of 

foam  up-rising 

Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  deli- 
cate hue  of  the  stillness. 
Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sides,  with  rowan  and 

pendant  birch  boughs, 
Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at   the 

bridge  and  pathway, 
Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood 

and  rocky  projection. 
You  are  shut  in,  left  alone  with  yourself 

and  perfection  of  water, 
Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself 

and  the  goddess  of  bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you  stride 

the  fall  and  clear  it ; 
Here,  the  delight  of  the  bather,  you  roll  in 

beaded  sparklings, 
Here  into  pure   green   depth   drop   down 

from  lofty  ledges. 
Hither,  a  month  agone,  they  had  come; 

and  discover'd  it  ;  hither 
(Long  a  design,  but  long  unaccountably  left 

unaccomplish'd), 

Leaving  the  well-known  bridge  and  path-- 
way above  to  the  forest, 
Turning  below  from  the  track  of  the  carte 

over  stone  and  shingle, 
Piercing  a  wood,  and  skirting  a  narrow  and 

natural  causeway 
Under  the  rocky  wall  that  hedges  the  bed 

of  the  streamlet, 

Rounded  a  craggy  point,  and  saw  on  a  sud- 
den before  them 

Slabs  of  rock,  and  a  tiny  beach,  and  perfec- 
tion of  water, 


2l6 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Picture-like  beauty,  seclusion  sublime,  and 

the  goddess  of  bathing. 
There  they  bath'd,  of  course,  and  Arthur, 

the  glory  of  headers, 
Leap'd   from   the   ledges    with   Hope,    he 

twenty  feet,  he  thirty  ; 
There,  overbold,  great  Hobbes  from  a  ten- 
foot  height  descended, 
Prone,  as  a  quadruped,  prone  with  hands 

and  feet  protending  ; 
There  in  the  sparkling  champagne,  ecstatic, 

they  shriek'd  and  shouted. 
"  Hobbes's   gutter "   the   Piper   entitles 

the  spot,  profanely, 
Hope    "  the    Glory "    would    have,    after 

Arthur,  the  glory  of  headers  : 
But,  for  before  they  departed,  in  shy  and 

fugitive  reflex 

Here  in  the  eddies  and  there  did  the  splen- 
dor of  Jupiter  glimmer  ; 
Adam  adjudged  it  the  name  of  Hesperus, 

star  of  the  evening. 
Hither,  to  Hesperus,  now,  the  star  of  the 

evening  above  them, 
Come   in   their   lonelier   walk   the    pupils 

twain  and  Tutor ; 
Turn'd  from  the  track  of    the  carts,  and 

passing  the  stone  and  shingle, 
Piercing  the  wood,  and  skirting  the  stream 

by  the  natural  causeway, 
Rounded  the  craggy  point,  and  now  at  their 

ease  look'd  up  ;  and 
Lo,   on  the   rocky   ledge,   regardant,   the 

Glory  of  headers, 
Lo,  on  the  beach,  expecting  the  plunge,  not 

cigarless,  the  Piper.  — 
And  they  look'd,  and  wonder'd,  incredu- 
lous, looking  yet  once  more. 
Yes,  it  was  he,  on  the  ledge,  bare-limb'd, 

an  Apollo,  down-gazing, 
Eying  one  moment  the  beauty,  the  life,  ere 

he  flung  himself  in  it, 
Eying  through  eddying  green  waters  the 

green-tinting  floor  underneath  them, 
Eying  the  bead  on  the  surface,  the  bead, 

like  a  cloud,  rising  to  it, 
Drinking  in,  deep  in  his  soul,  the  beautiful 

hue  and  th*e  clearness, 
Arthur,  the  shapely,  the  brave,  the  unboast- 

ing,  the  glory  of  headers  ; 
Yes,  and  with  fragrant  weed,  by  his  knap- 
sack, spectator  and  critic, 
Seated  on  slab  by  the  margin,  the  Piper, 

the  Cloud-compeller. 


PESCHIERA 

WHAT  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  ? 
"  'T  is  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 

The  tricolor  —  a  trampled  rag  — 
Lies  dirt  and  dust  ;  the  lines  I  track 
By  sentries'  boxes,  yellow,  black, 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts  ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wing  flouts 
The  breadth  and  beauty  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O  men  of  Brescia  !  on  the  day 
Of  loss  past  hope,  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 

You  said  :  "  Since  so  it  is,  good-bye, 
Sweet  life,  high  hope  ;  but  whatsoe'er 
May  be,  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell,  '  The  Lombard  f ear'd  to  die  ! ' n 

You  said  (there  shall  be  answer  fit)  : 
"  And  if  our  children  must  obey, 
They  must  ;  hut,  thinking  on  this  day, 
'T  will  less  debase  them  to  submit." 

You  said  (O  not  in  vain  you  said)  : 

"  Haste,    brothers,    haste,    while    yet    we 

may; 

The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day, 
While  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed." 

Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honor,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  cause, 
You  did  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

And  though  the  stranger  stand,  't  is  true, 
By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands  : 
By  fortune,  which  is  in  God's  hands, 
And  strength,  which  yet   shall   spring  in 
you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera,  when  thy  bridge  I  crost  : 
"  'T  is  better  to  have  fought  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all." 


2I7 


FROM    "AMOURS    DE   VOYAGE" 

JUXTAPOSITION 

JUXTAPOSITION,  in  fine  ;  and  what  is  juxta- 
position ? 

Look  you,  we  travel  along  in  the  railway- 
carriage  or  steamer, 

And,  pour  passer  le  temps,  till  the  tedious 
.  journey  be  ended, 

Lay  aside  paper  or  book,  to  talk  with  the 
girl  that  is  next  one  ; 

And, pour  passer  le  temps,  with  the  terminus 
all  but  in  prospect, 

Talk  of  eternal  ties  and  marriages  made  in 

heaven. 

Ah,  did  we  really  accept  with  a  perfect 
heart  the  illusion  ! 

Ah,  did   we   really  believe  that  the    Pre- 
sent indeed  is  the  Only  ! 

Or  through   all   transmutation,  all   shock 
and  convulsion  of  passion, 

Feel  we  could    carry  undimmed,  unextin- 
guished,  the  light  of  our  knowledge  ! 
But  for  his  funeral  train  which  the  bride- 
groom sees  in  the  distance, 

Would  he  so  joyfully,  think  you,  fall  in 
with  the  marriage-procession  ? 

But  for  that  final  discharge,  would  he  dare 
to  enlist  in  that  service  ? 

But  for  that  certain  release,  ever  sign  to 
that  perilous  contract  ? 

But  for  that  exit  secure,  ever  bend  to  that 
treacherous  doorway?  — 

Ah,   but  the    bride,   meantime,  —  do    you 

think  she  sees  it  as  he  does  ? 
But  for  the  steady  fore-sense  of  a  freer 
and  larger  existence, 

Think  you  that  man  could  consent  to  be 
circumscribed  here  into  action  ? 

But  for  assurance  within  of  a  limitless  ocean 
divine,  o'er 

Whose  great  tranquil  depths  unconscious 
the  wind-toss'd  surface 

Breaks  into  ripples  of  trouble  that  come 
and  change  and  endure  not,  — 

But  that  in  this,  of  a  truth,  we  have  our 
being,  and  know  it, 

Think  you  we  men  could  submit  to  live  and 
move  as  we  do  here  ? 

Ah,  but  the  women,  —  God  bless  them  !  — 

they  don't  think  at  all  about  it. 
Yet  we  must  eat  and  drink,  as  you  say. 
And  as  limited  beings 


Scarcely  can  hope  to  attain  upon  earth  to 

an  Actual  Abstract, 
Leaving  to  God  contemplation,  to  His  hands 

knowledge  confiding, 
S'jre  that  in  us  if  it  perish,  in  Him  it  abid- 

eth  and  dies  not, 
Let  us  in  His  sight  accomplish  our  petty 

particular  doings,  — 
Yes,  and  contented  sit  down  to  the  victual 

that  He  has  provided. 
Allah  is  great,  no  doubt,  and  Juxtaposition 

his  prophet. 
Ah,  but  the  women,  alas  !  they  don't  look 

at  it  in  that  way. 
Juxtaposition  is  great ;  —  but,  my  friend, 

I  fear  me,  the  maiden 
Hardly  would  thank  or  acknowledge  the 

lover  that  sought  to  obtain  her, 
Not  as  the  thing  he  would  wish,  but  the 

thing  he  must  even  put  up  with,  — 
Hardly  would  tender  her  hand  to  the  wooer 

that  candidly  told  her 
That  she  is  but  for  a  space,  an  ad-interim 

solace  and  pleasure,  — 
That  in  the  end  she  shall  yield  to  a  perfect 

and  absolute  something, 
Which  I  then  for  myself  shall  behold,  and 

not  another,  — 

Which;  amid  fondest  endearments,  mean- 
time I  forget  not,  forsake  not.  • 
Ah,  ye  feminine  souls,  so  loving  and  so  ex- 
acting, 

Since  we  cannot  escape,  must  we  even  sub- 
mit to  deceive  you  ? 
Since,  so  cruel  is  truth,  sincerity   shocks 

and  revolts  you, 
Will  you  have  us  your  slaves  to  lie  to  you, 

natter  and  —  leave  you  ? 

ITE  DOMUM  SATURN,  VENIT 
HESPERUS 

THE  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper 

snow, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

The  rainy  clouds  are  filling  fast  below, 
And  wet  will  be  the  path,  and  wet  shall  we 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  -La 

Palie  ! 

Ah  dear  !  and  where  is  he,  a  year  agone, 
Who  stepp'd  beside  and  cheer 'd  us  on  and 
on? 


218 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


My  sweetheart  wanders  far  away  from  me 
In  foreign  land  or  on  a  foreign  sea. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  I 

The  lightning  zigzags  shoot  across  the  sky, 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,-  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  through  the  vale  the  rains  go  sweep- 
ing by  ; 

Ah  me  !  and  when  in  shelter  shall  we  be  ? 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

Cold,  dreary  cold,  the  stormy  winds  feel 
they 

O'er  foreign  lands  and  foreign  seas  that 
stray. 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  doth  he  e'er,  I  wonder,  bring  to  mind 

The  pleasant  huts  and  herds  he  left  be- 
hind ? 

And  doth  he  sometimes  in  his  slumbering 

see 
The  feeding  kine,  and  doth  he  think   of 

me, 
My  sweetheart  wandering  wheresoe'er  it 

be? 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  ! 

The  thunder  bellows  far  from  snow  to 
snow, 

(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  !) 

And  loud  and  louder  roars  the  flood  be- 
low. 

Heigh-ho  !  but  soon  in  shelter  shall  we  be  : 
.  Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 
Palie  ! 

Or  shall  he  find  before  his  term  be  sped 
Some  comelier  maid  that  he  shall  wish  to 

wed? 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

For  weary  is  work,  and  weary  day  by  day 

To  have  your  comfort  miles  on  miles  away. 

-(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  !) 

Or  may  it  be  that  I  shall  find  my  mate, 
And  he,  returning,  see  himself  too  late  ? 


For  work  we  must,  and  what  we  see,  we  see. 
And   God   he  knows,  and   what  must  be, 

must  be, 
When  sweethearts  wander  far  away  from 

me. 
Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie  ! 

The  sky  behind  is  brightening  up  anew, 
(Home,  Rose,  and  home,  Provence  and  La 

Palie !) 

The  rain  is  ending,  and  our  journey  too ; 
Heigh-ho !   aha  !    for    here    at   home    are 

we  :  — 
In,  Rose,  and  in,  Provence  and  La  Palie  I 

AH!    YET  CONSIDER  IT  AGAIN 

OLD  things  need  not  be  therefore  true, 
O  brother  men,  nor  yet  the  new  ; 
Ah  !  still  awhile  the  old  thought  retain. 
And  yet  consider  it  again  1 

The  souls  of  now  two  thousand  years 
Have  laid  up  here  their  toils  and  fears, 
And  all  the  earnings  of  their  pain, — 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  ! 

"We  !  what  do  we  see  ?  each  a  space 
Of  some  few  yards  before  his  face  ; 
Does  that  the  whole  wide  plan  explain  ? 
Ah,  yet  consider  it  again  1 

Alas  !  the  great  world  goes  its  way, 
And  takes  its  truth  from  each  new  day  ; 
They  do  not  quit,  nor  can  retain, 
Far  less  consider  it  again. 


WHERE  LIES  THE   LAND 

WHERE  lies  the  land  to  which  the   ship 

would  go  ? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land   she   travels   from  ? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth 

face, 
Link'd  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to 

pace  ! 

Or  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 


CLOUGH  —  SHAIRP  —  SMEDLEY 


219 


Oil  stormy  nights,  when  wild  northwesters 

rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and 

wave  ! 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would 

go? 

Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where   the  land   she   travels   from  ? 

Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say,. 


CAILLEACH    BEIN-Y-VREICH  * 

WEIRD  wife  of  Bein-y-Vreich  !  horo  !  horo  ! 

Aloft  in  the  mist  she  dwells  ; 
Vreich  horo  !  Vreich  horo  !  Vreich  horo  ! 

All  alone  by  the  lofty  wells. 

Weird,  weird  wife  !    with   the  long  gray 
locks, 

She  follows  her  fleet-foot  stags, 
Noisily  moving  through  splinter'd  rocks, 

And  crashing  the  grisly  crags. 

Tall   wife,  with   the   long   gray  hose  !   in 
haste 

The  rough  stony  beach  she  walks  ; 
But  dulse  or  seaweed  she  will  not  taste, 

Nor  yet  the  green  kail  stalks. 

And  I  will  not  let  my  herds  of  deer, 

My  bonny  red  deer  go  down  ; 
I  will  not  let  them  down  to  the  shore, 

To  feed  on  the  sea-shells  brown. 

Oh,  better  they  love  in  the  corrie's  recess, 

Or  on  mountain  top  to  dwell, 
And  feed  by  my  side  on  the  green,  green 
cress, 

That  grows  by  the  lofty  well. 


Broad  Bein-y-Vreich  is  grisly  and  drear, 
But  wherever  my  feet  have  been 

The  well-springs  start  for  my  darling  deer, 
And  the  grass  grows  tender  and  green. 

And  there  high  up  on  the  calm  nights  clear, 

Beside  the  lofty  spring, 
They  come  to  my  call,  and  I  milk  them 
there, 

And  a  weird  wild  song  I  sing. 

But  when  hunter  men  round  my  dun  deer 
prowl, 

I  will  not  let  them  nigh  ; 
Through  the  rended  cloud  I  cast  one  scowl, 

They  faint  on  the  heath  and  die. 

And  when  the  north  wind  o'er  the  desert 

bare 

Drives  loud,  to  the  corries  below 
I  drive  my  herds   down,  and    bield   them 

there 
From  the  drifts  of  the  blinding  snow. 

Then  I  mount  the  blast,  and  we  ride  full 
fast, 

And  laugh  as  we  stride  the  storm, 
I,  and  the  witch  of  the  Cruachan  Ben, 

And  the  scowling-eyed  Seul-Gorm. 


THE  LITTLE  FAIR  SOUL 

A.  LITTLE  fair  soul  that  knew  no  sin 
Look'd  over  the  edge  of  Paradise, 

And  saw  one  striving  to  come  in, 
With  fear  and  tumult  in  his  eyes. 


"  Oh,  brother,  is  it  you  ?  '"  he  cried  ; 

"  Your    face    is    like     a    breath 

home  ; 
Why  do  you  stay  so  long  outside  ? 

I  am  athirst  for  you  to  come  i 


1  A  beanshith  or  fairy  seen  by  hunters. 


from 


22O 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


"  Tell  me  first  how  our  mother  fares, 
And  has  she  wept  too  much  for  me  ?  " 

"  White  are  her  cheeks  and  white  her  hairs, 
But  not  from  gentle  tears  for  thee." 

"  Tell  me,  where  are  our  sisters  gone  ?  " 
"  Alas,  I  left  them  weary  and  wan." 

*6  And  tell  me  is  the  baby  grown  ?  " 
"Alas  !  he  is  almost  a  man. 

"  Cannot  you  break  the  gathering  days, 
And  let  the  light  of  death  come  through, 

Ere  his  feet  stumble  in  the  maze 
Cross'd  safely  by  so  few,  so  few  ? 

9 

"  For  like  a  crowd  upon  the  sea 

That  darkens  till  you  find  no  shore, 

So  was  that  face  of  life  to  me, 
Until  I  sank  for  evermore  ; 

"  And  like  an  army  in  the  snow 

My  days  went  by,  a  treacherous  train, 

Each  smiling  as  he  struck  his  blow, 
Until  I  lay  among  them  slain." 

"  Oh,  brother,  there  was  a  path  so  clear  !  " 
"  There  might  be,  but  I  never  sought." 

"  Oh,  brother,  there  was  a  sword  so  near  !  " 
"There  might  be,  but  I  never  fought." 

"Yet  sweep  this  needless  gloom  aside, 
For  you  are  come  to  the  gate  at  last !  " 


Then  in  despair  that  soul  replied, 
"  The  gate  is  fast,  the  gate  is  fast  ! " 

"  I  cannot  move  this  mighty  weight, 
I  cannot  find  this  golden  key  ; 

But  hosts  of  heaven  around  us  wait, 
And  none  has  ever  said  '  No '  to  me. 

"  Sweet  Saint,  put  by  thy  palm  and  scroll, 
And  come  and  undo  the  door  for  me  !  " 

"  Rest  thee  still,  thou  little  fair  soul, 
It  is  not  mine  to  keep  the  key." 

"  Kind  Angel,  strike  these  doors  apart  I 
The  air  without  is  dark  and  cold." 

"  Rest  thee  still,  thou  little  pure  heart, 
Not  for  my  word  will  they  unfold." 

Up  all  the  shining  heights  he  pray'd 
For  that  poor  Shadow  in  the  cold  ! 

Still  came  the  word,  "  Not  ours  to  aid  ; 
We  cannot  make  the  doors  unfold." 

But  that  poor  Shadow,  still  outside, 
Wrung  all  the  sacred  air  with  pain  ; 

And  all  the  souls  went  up  and  cried 
Where  never  cry  was  heard  in  vain. 

No  eye  beheld  the  pitying  Face, 
The  answer  none  might  understand, 

But  dimly  through  the  silent  space 
Was  seen  the  stretching  of  a  Hand. 


Edgfjton 


THE  DRIED-UP  FOUNTAIN 

OUTSIDE  the  village,  by  the  public  road, 
I  know  a  dried-up  fountain,  overgrown 
With  herbs,  the  haunt  of  legendary  toad, 
And  grass,  by  Nature  sown. 

I  know  not  where  its  trickling  life  was  still'd ; 
No  living  ears  its  babbling  tongue  has 

caught ; 

But  often,  as  I  pass,  I  see  it  fill'd 
And  running  o'er  with  thought. 

I  see  it  as  it  was  in  days  of  old, 

The   blue-ey'd  maiden  stooping  o'er  its 

brim, 

And  smoothing  in  its  glass  her  locks  of  gold, 
Lest  she  should  meet  with  him. 


She  knows  that  he  is  near,  yet  I  can  see 
Her  sweet  confusion  when  she  hears  him 

come. 

No  tryst  had  they,  though  every  evening  he 
Carries  her  pitchers  home. 

The  ancient  beggar  limps  along  the  road 
At  thirsty  noon,  and   rests   him   by  its 

brink  ; 

The  dusty  pedlar  lays  aside  his  load, 
And  pauses  there  to  drink. 

And   there   the    village   children  come  to 

play, 
When   busy   parents   work  in  shop  and 

field. 

The  swallows,  too,  find  there  the  loamy  clay 
When  'neath  the  eaves  they  build. 


LEIGHTON  —  MATTHEW   ARNOLD 


221 


When  cows  at  eve  come   crooning   home, 

the  boy 
Leaves  them  to  drink,  while  his  mechanic 

skill 

Within  the  brook  sets  up,  with  inward  joy, 
His  tiny  water-mill. 

And  when  the  night  is  hush'd  in  summer 

sleep, 
And  rest  has  come  to  laborer  and  team, 


I  hear  the  runnel  through  the  long  grass 

creep, 
As  't  were  a  whispering  dream. 

Alas  !  't  is  all  a  dream.     Lover  and  lass, 
Children   and    wanderers,   are   in   their 

graves  ; 
And  where  the  fountain  flow'd  a  greener 

grass  — 
Its  In  Memoriam  —  waves. 


WRITTEN   IN    EMERSON'S 
ESSAYS 

"  O  MONSTROUS,  dead,  unprofitable  world, 
That  thou  canst  hear,  and  hearing,  hold  thy 

way  ! 

A  voice  oracular  hath  peal'd  to-day, 
To-day  a  hero's  banner  is  unfurl'd  ; 
Hast  thou  no  lip  for  welcome  ?  "  —  So  I 

said. 
Man   after   man,    the    world    smil'd    and 

pass'd  by  ; 

A  smile  of  wistful  incredulity 
As    though    one    spake    of   life    unto    the 

dead  — 
Scornful,  and  strange,  and  sorrowful,  and 

full 
Of    bitter    knowledge.     Yet    the    will    is 

free  ; 

Strong  is  the  soul,  and  wise,  and  beauti- 
ful ; 

The  seeds  of  god-like  power  are  in  us  still  ; 
Gods  are   we,  bards,  saints,  heroes,  if  we 

will  !  — 
Dumb  judges,  answer,  truth  or  mockery  ? 

THE  WORLD  AND  THE  QUIETIST 

"  WHY,  when  the  world's  great  mind 
Hath  finally  inclin'd, 

Wliy,"you  say,  Critias,  "be  debating  still? 
Why,  wiih  these  mournful  rhymes 
Learn'd  in  more  languid  climes, 
Blame  our  activity 
Who,  with  such  passionate  will, 
Are  what  we  mean  to  be  ?  " 

Critias,  long  since,  I  know 
(For  Fate  decreed  it  so), 


2Urn0fo 

Long  since  the  world  hath  set  its  heart  to 

live  ; 

Long  since,  with  credulous  zeal 
It  turns  life's  mighty  wheel, 
Still  doth  for  laborers  send 
Who  still  their  labor  give, 
And  still  expects  an  end. 

Yet,  as  the  wheel  flies  round, 
With  no  ungrateful  sound 
Do  adverse  voices  fall  on  the  world's  ear. 
Deafen'd  by  his  own  stir 
The  rugged  laborer 
Caught  not  till  then  a  sense 
So  glowing  and  so  near 
Of  his  omnipotence. 

So,  when  the  feast  grew  loud 
In  Susa's  palace  proud, 
A  white-rob'd    slave    stole  to    the    Great 

King's  side. 

He  spake  —  the  Great  King  heard  ; 
Felt  the  slow-rolling  w(trd 
Swell  his  attentive  soul ; 
Breath'd  deeply  as  it  died, 
And  drain' d  his  mighty  bowl. 


FROM  "SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM  " 

THE  COMBAT 

HE  ceas'd,  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum 

had  risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage  ;  his 

club 

He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regain' d  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mail'd  right- 
hand 


222 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Blaz'd  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn- 
star, 

The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  ;  dust  had  soil'd 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimm'd  his  glitter- 
ing arms. 
His  breast  heav'd,  his    lips    foam'd,  and 

twice  his  voice 
Was  chok'd  with  rage  ;  at  last  these  words 

broke  way  :  — 
"  Girl  !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with 

thy  hands  ! 
Curl'd   minion,    dancer,    coiner    of    sweet 

words  ! 
Fight,   let   me   hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 

more  ! 

Thou  art  not  in  Af  rasiab's  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with    whom  thou   art 

wont  to  dance  ; 

But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war  ;  I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and 

wine  ! 

Remember  all  thy  valor  ;  try  thy  feints 
And  cunning  !  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone  ; 
Because  thou  hast  sham'd  me  before  both 

the  hosts 
With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,   and    thy 

girl's  wiles." 
He    spoke,  and   Sohrab    kindled  at   his 

taunts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword  ;  at  once  they 

rush'd 

Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come    rushing    down    together    from  the 

clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west  ; 

their  shields 

Dash'd  with  a*  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees  —  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hail'd. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 

part 

In  that  unnatural  conflict  ;  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  dark'd  the 

sun 

Over  the  fighters'  heads  ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the 

plain, 
And  in  a    sandy    whirlwind  wrapp'd    the 

pair. 
In   gloom  they  twain  were   wrapp'd,  and 

they  alone  ; 


For  both  the   on-looking    hosts  on  either 

hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was 

pure, 

And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  blood- 
shot eyes 
And  laboring  breath  ;  first  Rustum  struck 

the  shield 
Which   Sohrab   held   stiff   out ;  the  steel- 

spik'd  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  fail'd  to  reach 

the  skin, 
And  Rustum  pluck'd  it  back  with  angry 

groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rus- 

tum's  helm, 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through  ;  but  all 

the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and*  that  proud  horsehair 

plume, 

Never  till  now  defil'd,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum    bow'd  his  head  ;  but    then 

the  gloom 

Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud  ;  and  Ruksh, 

the  horse, 
Who   stood    at   hand,    utter'd   a  dreadful 

cry;  — 

No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pain'd  desert-lion,  who  all  day 
Has  trail'd  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And     comes   at    night   to    die   upon    the 

sand  — 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quak'd 

for  fear, 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  cross'd  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab   heard,    and    quail'd   not,  but 

rush'd  on, 
And    struck    again  ;     and   again   Rustum 

bow'd 
His  head  ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 

glass, 

Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm. 
And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remain'd  alone. 
Then  Rustum  rais'd  his  head  ;  his  dread- 
ful eyes 
Glar'd,  and  he  shook  011  high  his  menacing 

spear, 
And   shouted  :     Rustum  !  —  Sohrab  heard 

that  shout, 
And  shrank  amaz'd  :  back  he  recoil'd  one 

step, 

And   scann'd   with    blinking  eyes  the  ad- 
vancing form  ; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


223 


And    then   he   stood   bewilder'd,    and   he 

dropp'd 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced 

his  side. 
He  reel'd,  and  staggering  back,   sank  to 

the  ground  ; 
And    then  the   gloom  dispers'd,    and  the 

wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 
The  cloud  ;  and  the  two  armies  saw   the 

pair  ;  — 

Saw  Rusturn  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab,  wounded,  oil  the  bloody  sand. 

oxus 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  mov'd, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hush'd  Chorasmiau 

waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon  ;  —  he  flow'd 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large  ;  then 

sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery    march,  and  dam  his 

streams, 
And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a 

league 

The  shorn  and  parcell'd  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and   matted  rushy 

isles  — 

Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain-cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  f  oil'd  circuitous  wanderer  —  till  at  last 
The  long'd-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 

wide 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 

batli'd  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

FROM   "BALDER   DEAD" 

THE    INCREMATION 

BUT  now  the  sun  had  pass'd  the  height  of 

Heaven, 
And  soon  had  all  that  day  been  spent  in 

wail  ; 

But  then  the  Father  of  the  ages  said  :  — 
"  Ye  Gods,  there  well  may  be  too  much 

of  wail  ! 
Bring  now  the  gather'd  wood  to  Balder's 

ship  ;    . 


Heap  on  the  deck  the  logs,  and  build  the 

pyre." 
But  when  the  Gods  and  Heroes  heard, 

they  brought 

The  wood  to  Balder's  ship,  and  built  a  pile, 
Full  the  deck's  breadth,  and  lofty;  then 

the  corpse 

Of  Balder  on  the  highest  top  they  laid, 
With  Nanna  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left 
Hoder,  his  brother,   whom  his  own  hand 

slew. 

And  they  set  jars  of  wine  and  oil  to  lean 
Against  the  bodies,  and  stuck  torches  near, 
Splinters  of  pine-wood,  soak'd  with  turpen- 
tine ; 
And  brought  his  arms  and  gold,  and  all  his 

stuff, 

And  slew  the  dogs  who  at  his  table  fed, 
And  his  horse,  Balder's  horse,  whom  most 

he  lov'd, 
And   threw  them  on  the  pyre,  and  Odin 

threw 

A  last  choice  gift  thereon,  his  golden  ring. 
The  mast  they  fix'd,  and  hoisted  up  the 

sails, 

Then  they  put  fire  to  the  wood  ;  and  Thor 
Set  his  stout  shoulder    hard  against    the 

stern 
To     push    the    ship    through    the    thick 

sand  ;  —  sparks  flew 
From   the  deep    trench  she    plough'd,   so 

strong  a  God 

Furrow'd  it  ;  and  the  water  gurgled  in. 
And   the  ship  floated  on    the  waves,  and 

rock'd. 

But  in  the  hills  a  strong  east-wind  arose, 
And  came  down  moaning  to  the  sea  ;  first 

squalls 
Ran  black  o'er  the  sea's  face,  then  steady 

rush'd 
The  breeze,  and  fill'd  the  sails,  and  blew 

the  fire  ; 
And  wreath'd  in  smoke  the  ship  stood  out 

to  sea. 

Soon  with  a  roaring  rose  the  mighty  fire, 
And  the   pile  crackled  ;  and  between  the 

logs 
Sharp  quivering  tongues  of  flame  shot  out, 

and  leap'd, 
Curling   and   darting,  higher,    until    they 

lick'd 
The   summit   of   the   pile,    the  dead,   the 

mast, 
And  ate  the  shrivelling  sails  ;  buf-  still  the 

ship 


224 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Drove  on,  ablaze  above  her  hull  with  fire. 
And  the  Gods  stood  upon  the  beach,  and 

gaz'd. 
And  while  they  gaz'd,  the  sun  went  lurid 

down 
Into   the   smoke-wrapp'd   seas,  and   night 

came  on. 
Then  the  wind  fell,  with  night,  and  there 

was  calm  ; 
But   through   the  dark   they   watch'd  the 

burning  ship 

Still  carried  o'er  the  distant  waters  on, 
Farther  and  farther,  like  an  eye  of  fire. 
And  long,  in  the  far  dark,  blaz'd  Balder's 

pile  ; 
But   fainter,  as    the   stars   rose   high,     it 

flar'd  ; 
The  bodies  were  cousum'd,  ash  chok'd  the 

pile. 

And  as,  in  a  decaying  winter-fire, 
A  charr'd  log,  falling,  makes  a  shower  of 

sparks  — 

So  with  a  shower  of  sparks  the  pile  fell  in, 
Reddening  the  sea  around  ;  and   all   was 

dark. 
But  the  Gods  went  by  starlight  up  the 

shore 

To  Asgard,  and  sate  down  in  Odin's  hall 
At  table,  and  the  funeral-feast  began. 
•All   night    they  ate  the  boar    Serimner's 

flesh,   ' 
And  from  their  horns,  with  silver  rimm'd, 

drank  mead, 
Silent,  and  waited  for  the  sacred  morn. 

THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

COME,  dear  children,  let  us  away  ; 
Down  and  away  below  ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow  ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go  — 
Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 
"  Margaret  !    Margaret !  " 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear  ; 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain  — 
Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 


Call  her  once  and  come  away  ; 

This  way,  this  way  ! 

"  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  ! 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 

Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down  ; 
Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 

shore  ; 

Then  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day  ; 
Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ? 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground  ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine  ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  kuee. 

She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended 

it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off 

bell. 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear 

green  sea  ; 
She   said  :  "  I   must   go,   for  my  kinsfolk 

pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to- 
day. 
'T  will   be   Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah 

me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman  !   here 

with  thee." 
I  said  :  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the 

waves  ; 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


225 


Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind 

sea-caves  J " 
She  smil'd,  she  went  up   through  the  surf 

in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long,  alone  ? 

"  The   sea   grows   stormy,   the  little   ones 

moan  ; 
Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "  in  the  world  they 

say  ; 
Come  ! "  I  said  ;  and  we  rose  through  the 

surf  in  the  bay. 

We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white- 

wall'd  town  ; 
Through  the  narrow  pav'd  streets,  where 

all  was  still, 
To   the   little  gray  church   on   the   windy 

hill. 
From  the  church  came  a  murmur  of  folk 

at  their  prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing 

airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the   stones 

worn  with  rains, 
And  we  gaz'd   up  the  aisle  through   the 

small  leaded  panes. 

She  sate  by  the  pillar  ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 
"  Margaret,  hist  !  come  quick,  we  are  here  ! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone  ; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book  ! 
Loud  prays  the  priest  :  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more  ! 

Down,  down,  down ! 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  ! 

She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town. 

Singing  most  joyfully. 

Hark  what  she  sings  :  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 

For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with 

its  toy  ! 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy 

well ; 

For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun  !  " 
And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 
Singing  most  joyfully, 
Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 
And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 
She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the 

sand, 


And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea  ; 
And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ; 
And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 
And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 
From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 
And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 
A  long,  long  sigh; 
For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little 

maiden 
And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children  ; 
Come,  children,  come  down  ! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder  ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing  :  "  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she  ! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 


But,  children,  at  midnight, 

When  soft  the  winds  blow, 

When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 

When  spring-tides  are  low  ; 

When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 

From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 

And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 

On  the  blanch'd  sands  a  gloom  ; 

Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie. 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town  ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill-side  — 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing  :  "  There  dwells  a  lov'd  onef 

But  cruel  is  she  ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea." 

PHILOMELA 

HARK  !  ah,  the  nightingale  — 
The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark,  from    that    moonlit    cedar    what  a 
burst  ! 


226 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


What  triumph  !  hark  !  —  what  pain  I 
O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lauds, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That   wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old- 
world  pain  — 
Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English 

grass, 
The   unfriendly  palace    in    the    Thracian 

wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's 

shame  ? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make 

resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 
Listen,  Eugenia  — 
How     thick    the    bursts    come    crowding 

through  the  leaves  ! 
Again  —  thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion  ! 
Eternal  pain ! 

DOVER  BEACH 

THE  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits  ;  —  on  the  French  coast  the 
light 

Gleams  and  is  gone  ;  the  cliffs  of  England 
stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil 
bay. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night- 
air  ! 

Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 

Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd 
sand, 

Listen  !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 

Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and 
fling, 


At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  -ZEgsean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery  ;  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth'g 

shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd- 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 
Of  the  night-winds,  down  the  vast  edges 

drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To    one    another !    for    the   world,   which 

seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 
So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 
Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 
Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain  ; 
And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 
Swept  with  conf  us'd  alarms  of  struggle  and 

flight, 
Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 

FROM  "EMPEDOCLES   ON 
ETNA" 

AND  you,  ye  stars, 

Who  slowly  begin  to  marshal, 

As  of  old,  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 

Your  distant,  melancholy  lines  ! 

Have  you,  too,  surviv'd  yourselves  ? 

Are  you,  too,  what  I  fear  to  become  ? 

You,  too,  once  liv'd  ; 

You  too  mov'd  joyfully, 

Among  august  companions, 

In  an  older  world,  peopled  by  Gods, 

In  a  mightier  order, 

The  radiant,  rejoicing,  intelligent  Sons  of 

Heaven. 

But  now,  ye  kindle 
Your  lonely,  cold-shining  lights, 
Unwilling  lingerers 
In  the  heavenly  wilderness, 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


227 


For  a  younger,  ignoble  world  ; 
And  renew,  by  necessity, 
Night  after  night  your  courses, 
In  echoing,  unnear'd  silence, 
Above  a  race  you  know  not  — 
Uncaring  and  undelighted, 
Without  friend  and  without  home  ; 
Weary  like  us,  though  not 
Weary  with  our  weariness. 

No,  no,  ye  stars  !  there  is   no  death  with 

you, 

No  languor,  no  decay  !  languor  and  death, 
They  are  with  me,  not  you  !  ye  are  alive  — • 
Ye,  and  the  pure  dark  ether  where  ye  ride 
Brilliant  above  me  !  And  thou,  fiery  world, 
That   sapp'st   the   vitals    of   this    terrible 

mount 
Upon  whose  charr'd  and  quaking   crust  I 

stand  — 
Thou,  too,  briinmest  with  life  !  —  the  sea  of 

cloud, 

That  heaves  its  white  and  billowy  vapors  up 
To  moat  this  isle  of  ashes  from  the  world, 
Lives  ;  and  that  other  fainter  sea,  far  down, 
O'er  whose  lit  floor  a  road  of  moonbeams 

leads 

To  Etna's  Liparean  sister-fires 
And  the  long  dusky  line  of  Italy  — 
That  mild  and   luminous    floor  of    waters 

lives, 

With  held-in  joy  swelling  its  heart  ;  I  only, 
Whose  spring  of  hope  is  dried,  whose  spirit 

has  fail'd, 

I,  who  have  not,  like  these,  in  solitude 
Maintain'd  courage  and  force,  and  in  myself 
Nurs'd  an  immortal  vigor  —  I  alone 
Am  dead  to  life  and  joy,  therefore  I  read 
In  all  things  my  own  deadness. 

THE   BURIED   LIFE 

LIGHT  flows  our  war  of   mocking   words, 

and  yet, 

Behold,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet ! 
I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 
Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest, 
We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile  ! 
But  there  's  a  something  in  this  breast, 
To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 
And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne  ; 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile, 
And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 
And  let  me  read  there,  love  !  thy  inmost 

soul. 


Alas  !  is  even  love  too  weak 

To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak  ? 

Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 

To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel  ? 

I  knew  the  mass  of  men  coiiceal'd 

Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  reveal'd 

They  would  by  other  men  be  met 

With    blank    indifference,  or  with   blame 

reprov'd  ; 

I  knew  they  liv'd  and  mov'd 
Trick'd  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 
Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves  —  and  yet 
The   same    heart   beats    in   every    human 

breast ! 

But  we,  my  love  !  —  doth  a  like  spell  be- 
numb 

Our  hearts,  our  voices  ?  —  must  we  too  be 
dumb? 

Ah  !  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 
Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 
Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchain'd  ; 
For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep- 
ordain'd  ! 

Fate,  which  foresaw 
How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be  — 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possess'd, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity  — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 
Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law, 
Bade  through   the    deep    recesses   of   our 

breast 

The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way  ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 
Eddying  at  large  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the    world's   most    crowded 

streets, 

But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 
There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 
After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life  ; 
A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 
In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course  ; 
A  longing  to  inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats 
So  wild,  so  deep  in  us —  to  know 
Whence   our  lives  come  and  where  they 


228 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then 

delves, 

But  deep  enough,  alas  !  none  ever  mines. 
And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 
And  we  have  shown,  on    each,  spirit  and 

power  ; 

But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 
Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  our- 
selves — 

Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 
The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through 

our  breast, 

But  they  course  on  for  ever  unexpress'd. 
And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 
Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 
Is  eloquent,  is  well  — but  't  is  not  true  ! 
And  then  we  will  no  more  be  rack'd 
With  inward  striving,  and  demand 
Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 
Their  stupefying  power  ; 
Ah  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call ! 
Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,    vague   and 

forlorn, 

From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 
As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 
Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 
A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare  — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 

When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 

Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 

When  our  world-deafen'd  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  lov'd  voice  caress'd  — 

A   bolt   is   shot   back   somewhere    in    our 

breast, 

And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again. 
The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies 

plain, 
And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we 

would,  we  know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 
And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 
The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the 

breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  for  ever  chase 
The  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast. 
And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

APRIL,  1850 

GOETHE  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remaiu'd  to  come  ; 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb  — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bow'd  our  head  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little  ;  but  our  soul 
Had /eft  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law  ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watch 'd  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  serv'd  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said  : 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear  : 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said  :   Thou  attest  here,  and  here  ! 

He  look'd  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power  ; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  — 

He  said  :  The  end  is  everywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there  ! 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !  —  Ah,  pale  ghosts,  re- 
joice ! 

For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  convey'd, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 
Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades,  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  —  and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  ! 
He  too  upon  a  wintery  clime 
Had  fallen — on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loos'd  our  hearts  in  tears. 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


229 


He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth, 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease  ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sun-lit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  return'd  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  f  url'd, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force  ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power  ? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel ; 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah  !  who,  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  — 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ? 
Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave, 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave  ! 
Sing  him  thy  best  !  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 

GEIST'S    GRAVE 

FOUR  years  !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground, which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist  !  into  no  more  ? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn,. 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  urging  the  Virgilian  cry, l 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consol'd 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 


Yes,  only  four  !  —  and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  let  ! 

Which   man,   proud    man,   finds    hard   to 

bear, 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart  — 
Would  fix  our  favorite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now  ; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou  1 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  rais'd  to  ask  which  way  we  go  ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow  ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home  j 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropp'd  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care  ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 


1  Sunt  lacrimae  rerum  ! 


230 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road  ;  — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode  ! 


Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass. 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


POPE  AT  TWICKENHAM 

BEYOND  a  hundred  years  and  more, 
A  garden  lattice  like  a  door 

Stands  open  in  the  sun, 
Admitting  fitful  winds  that  set 
Astir  the  fragrant  mignonette 

In  waves  of  speckled  dun  : 

Sweet  waves,  above  whose  odorous  flow 
Red  roses  bud,  red  roses  blow, 

In  beds  that  gem  the  lawn  — 
Enamell'd  rings  and  stars  of  flowers, 
By  summer  beams  and  vernal  showers 

From  earth  nutritious  drawn. 

Within  the  broad  bay-window,  there, 
Lo  !  huddled  in  his  easy-chair, 

One  hand  upon  his  knee, 
A  hand  so  thin,  so  wan,  so  frail, 
It  tells  of  pains  and  griefs  a  tale, 

A  small  bent  form  I  see. 

The  day  is  fair,  the  hour  is  noon, 

From  neighboring  thicket  thrills  the  boon 

The  nuthatch  yields  in  song  : 
All  drench'd  with  recent  rains,  the  leaves 
Are  dripping  —  drip  the  sheltering  eaves, 

The  dropping  notes  among. 

And  twinkling  diamonds  in  the  grass 
Show  where  the  flitting  zephyrs  pass, 

That  shake  the  green  blades  dry  ; 
And  golden  radiance  fills  the  air 
And  gilds  the  floating  gossamer 

That  glints  and  trembles  by. 

5Tet,  blind  to  each  familiar  grace, 
Strange  anguish  on  his  pallid  face, 
And  eyes  of  dreamful  hue, 


That  lonely  man  sits  brooding  there, 
Still  huddled  in  his  easy-chair, 
With  memories  life  will  rue. 

Where  bay   might  crown  that  honor'd 

head, 
A  homely  crumpled  nightcap  spread 

Half  veils  the  careworn  brows  ; 
In  morning-gown  of  rare  brocade 
His  puny  shrunken  shape  array'd 

His  sorrowing  soul  avows  : 

Avows  in  every  dropping  line 
Dejection  words  not  thus  define 

So  eloquent  of  woe  ; 
Yet  never  to  those  mournful  eyes, 
The  heart's  full-brimming  fountains,  rise 

Sweet  tears  to  overflow. 

No  token  here  of  studied  grief, 
But  plainest  signs  that  win  belief, 

A  simple  scene  and  true. 
Beside  the  mourner's  chair  display'd, 
The  matin  meal's  slight  comforts  laid 

Trimly  the  board  bestrew. 

'Mid  silvery  sheen  of  burnish'd  plate, 
The  chill'd  and  tarnish'd  chocolate 

On  snow-white  damask  stands  ; 
Untouch'd  the  trivial  lures  remain 
In  dainty  pink-tinged  porcelain, 

Still  ranged  by  usual  hands. 

A  drowsy  bee  above  the  cream 
Hums  loitering  in  the  sunny  gleam 

That  tips  each  rim  with  gold ; 
A  checker'd  maze  of  light  and  gloom 
Floats  in  the  quaintly-litter'd  room 

With  varying  charms  untold. 


KENT  —  ROSCOE  —  CORY 


231 


Why  sits  that  silent  watcher  there, 
Still  brooding  with  that  face  of  care, 

That  gaze  of  tearless  pain  ? 
What  bonds  of  woe  his  spirit  bind, 
What  treasure  lost  can  leave  behind 

Such  stings  within  his  brain  ? 

He  dreams  of  one  who  lies  above, 
He  never  more  in  life  can  love  — 
That  mother  newly  dead  ; 


He  waits  the  artist-friend  whose  skill 
Shall  catch  the  angel-beauty  still 
Upon  her  features  spread. 

A  reverent  sorrow  fills  the  air, 

And  makes  a  throne  of  grief  the  chair 

Where  filial  genius  mourus  : 
Death  proving  still,  at  direst  need, 
Life's  sceptre-wand  —  a  broken  reed. 

Love's  wreath  —  a  crown  of  thorus. 


IDiiliam  Cafotoett  tlosroc 


TO    LA    SANSCCEUR 

I  KNOW  not  how  to  call  you  light, 

Since  I  myself  was  lighter  ; 
Nor  can  you  blame  my  changing  plight 

Who  were  the  first  inviter. 

I  know  not  which  began  to  range 
Since  we  were  never  constant  ; 

And  each  when  each  began  to  change 
Was  found  a  weak  remonstrant. 

But  this  I  know,  the  God  of  Love 
Doth  shake  his  hand  against  us, 

And  scorning  says  we  ne'er  did  prove 
True  passion  —  but  pretences. 

THE    MASTER-CHORD 

LIKE  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger 
Startles  the  voice  of  some  new  instrument, 
And,  though  he  know  that  in  one  string  are 

blent 

All  its  extremes  of  sound,  yet  still  doth  lin- 
ger 

Among  the  lighter  threads,  fearing  to  start 
The  deep  soul  of  that  one  melodious  wire, 
Lest  it,  unanswering,  dash  his  high  desire, 


And  spoil  the  hopes  of  his  expectant  heart ; 
Thus,  with  my  mistress  oft  conversing,  I 
Stir  every  lighter  theme  with  careless  voice, 
Gathering  sweet  music  and  celestial  joys 
From  the  harmonious  soul  o'er  which  I  fly  ; 
Yet  o'er  the  one  deep  master-chord  I  hover, 
And  dare  not  stoop,  fearing  to  tell  —  I  love 
her. 

EARTH 

SAD  is  my  lot ;  among  the  shining  spheres 
Wheeling,  I  weave  incessant  day  and  night, 
And  ever,  in  my  never-ending  flight, 
Add  woes  to  woes,  and  count  up  tears  on 

tears. 
Young  wives'  and  new-born  infants'  hapless 

biers 

Lie  on  my  breast,  a  melancholy  sight ; 
Fresh  griefs  abhor  my  fresh  returning  light  ; 
Pain  and  remorse  and  want  fill  up  my  years. 
My  happier  children's  farther-piercing  eyes 
Into  the  blessed  solvent  future  climb, 
And  knit  the  threads  of  joy  and  hope  and 

warning  ; 

But  I,  the  ancient  mother,  am  not  wise, 
And,  shut  within  the  blind  obscure  of  time, 
Roll  on  from  morn  to  night,  and  on  from 

night  to  morning. 


IDiHiam 

MIMNERMUS    IN    CHURCH 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will  ; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 
So    sweet,   I    fain   would    breathe    it 
still  ; 


Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego, 
This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love. 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Show  me  what  angels  feel.     Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remember'd  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

HERACLEITUS1 

THEY  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me 

you  were  dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and 

bitter  tears  to  shed. 
I  wept,  as   I  remember'd   how  often  you 

and  I 
Had  tir'd  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him 

down  the  sky. 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old 

Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  gray  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at 

rest, 


Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightin- 
gales, awake ; 

For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them 
he  cannot  take. 

A     POOR     FRENCH     SAILOR'S 
SCOTTISH    SWEETHEART 

I  CANNOT  forget  my  Joe, 

I  bid  him  be  mine  in  sleep  ; 
But  battle  and  woe  have  changed  him  so 

There  's  nothing  to  do  but  weep. 

My  mother  rebukes  me  yet, 
And  I  never  was  meek  before  ; 

His  jacket  is  wet,  his  lip  cold  set, 
He  '11  trouble  our  home  no  more. 

Oh,  breaker  of  reeds  that  bend  ! 

Oh,  quencher  of  tow  that  smokes  ! 
I  'd  rather  descend  to  my  sailor  friend 

Than  prosper  with  lofty  folks. 

I  'm  lying  beside  the  gowan, 
My  Joe  in  the  English  bay  ; 

I  'm  Annie  Rowan,  his  Annie  Rowan, 
He  called  me  his  Bien-Aime'e. 

I  '11  hearken  to  all  you  quote, 

Though  I  'd  rather  be  deaf  and  free  ; 

The  little  he  wrote  in  the  sinking  boat 
Is  Bible  and  charm  for  me. 


Sfiutfjor  ftnfounti 


EPITAPH  OF  DIONYSIA 

HERE  doth  Dionysia  lie  : 
She  whose  little  wanton  foot, 
Tripping  (ah,  too  carelessly  !  ), 
Touch'd  this  tomb,  and  fell  into 't.    • 

Trip  no  more  shall  she,  nor  fall. 
And  her  trippings  were  so  few  ! 
Summers  only  eight  in  all 
Had  the  sweet  child  wander'd  through. 

But,  already,  life's  few  suns 
Love's  strong  seeds  had  ripen'd  warm. 
All  her  ways  were  winning  ones  ; 
All  her  cunning  was  to  charm. 


And  the  fancy,  in  the  flower, 
While  the  flesh  was  in  the  bud, 
Childhood's  dawning  sex  did  dower 
With  warm  gusts  of  womanhood. 

Oh  what  joys  by  hope  begun, 
Oh  what  kisses  kiss'd  by  thought, 
What  love-deeds  by  fancy  done, 
Death  to  endless  dust  hath  wrought  ! 

Had  the  fates  been  kind  as  thou, 
Who,  till  now,  was  never  cold, 
Once  Love's  aptest  scholar,  now 
Thou  hadst  been  his  teacher  bold  } 


1  After  Callimachua. 


COVENTRY   PATMORE 


233 


But,  if  buried  seeds  upthrow 

Fruits  and  flowers  ;  if  flower  and  fruit 

By  their  nature  fitly  show 

What  the  seeds  are,  whence  they  shoot, 


Dionysia,  o'er  this  tomb, 
Where  thy  buried  beauties  be, 
From  their  dust  shall  spring  and  bloom 
Loves  and  graces  like  to  thee. 


€obcntcp  Jtomore 


FROM     "THE     ANGEL     IN     THE 
HOUSE" 

THE  DEAN'S  CONSENT 

THE  Ladies  rose.     I  held  the  door, 

And  sigh'd,  as  her  departing  grace 
Assur'd  me  that  she  always  wore 

A  heart  as  happy  as  her  face  ; 
And,  jealous  of  the  winds  that  blew, 

I  dreaded,  o'er  the  tasteless  wine, 
What  fortune  momently  might  do 

To  hurt  the  hope  that  she  'd  be  mine. 

Towards  my  mark  the  Dean's  talk  set : 

He  praised  my  "Notes  on  Abury," 
Read  when  the  Association  met 

At  Sarum  ;  he  was  pleas'd  to  see 
I  had  not  stopp'd,  as  some  men  had, 

At  Wrangler  and  Prize  Poet  ;  last, 
He  hop'd  the  business  was  not  bad 

I  came  about  :  then  the  wine  pass'd. 

A  full  glass  prefaced  my  reply  : 

1  lov'd  his  daughter,  Honor  ;  I  told 
My  estate  and  prospects  ;  might  I  try 

To  win  her  ?     At  my  words  so  bold 
My  sick  heart  sank.     Then  he  :  He  gave 

His  glad  consent,  if  I  could  get 
Her    love.      A    dear,    good   Girl !    she  'd 
have 

Only  three  thousand  pounds  as  yet  ; 
More  by  and  by.     Yes,  his  good  will 

Should  go  with  me  ;  he  would  not  stir  ; 

He  and  my  father  in  old  time  still 

Wish'd  I  should  one  day  marry  her  ; 
But  God  so  seldom  lets  us  take 

Our  chosen  pathway,  when  it  lies 
In  steps  that  either  mar  or  make 

Or  aiter  others'  destinies, 
That,  though  his  blessing  and  his  pray'r 

Had  help'd,  should  help,  my  suit,  yet  he 
Left  all  to  me,  his  passive  share 

Consent  and  opportunity. 


My  chance,  he  hop'd,  was  good  :  I  'd  won 

Some  name  already  ;  friends  and  place 
Appear'd  within  my  reach,  but  none 

Her  mind  and  manners  would  not  grace. 
Girls  love  to  see  the  men  in  whom 

They  invest  their  vanities  admir'd  ; 
Besides,  where  goodness  is,  there  room 

For  good  to  work  will  be  desir'd. 
'T  was  so  with  one  now  pass'd  away  ; 

And  what  she  was  at  twenty-two, 
Honor  was  now  ;  and  he  might  say 

Mine  was  a  choice  I  could  not  rue. 

He   ceas'd,  and  gave  his  hand.     He   had 
won 

(And  all  my  heart  was  in  my  word) 
From  me  the  affection  of  a  son, 

Whichever  fortune  Heaven  couferr'd  ! 
Well,  well,  would  I  take  more  wine  ?  Then 

g° 

To  her  ;  she  makes  tea  on  the  lawn 
These  fine  warm  afternoons.     And  so 

We  went  whither  my  soul  was  drawn  ; 
And  her  light-hearted  ignorance 

Of  interest  in  our  discourse 
FilPd  me  with  love,  and  seem'd  to  enhance 

Her  beauty  with  pathetic  force, 
As,  through  the  flowery  mazes  sweet, 

Fronting  the  wind  that  flutter'd  blithe, 
And  lov'd  her  shape,  and  kiss'd  her  feet, 

Shown  to  their  insteps  proud  and  lithe, 
She   approach'd,  all   mildness   and  young 
trust, 

And  ever  her  chaste  and  noble  air 
Gave  to  love's  feast  its  choicest  gust, 

A  vague,  faint  augury  of  despair. 

HONORIA'S   SURRENDER 

From  little  signs,  like  little  stars, 
Whose  faint  impression  on  the  sense 

The  very  looking  straight  at  mars, 
Or  only  seen  by  confluence  ; 

From  instinct  of  a  mutual  thought, 
Whence  sanctity  of  manners  flow'd  j 


234 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


From  chance  unconscious,  and  from  what 
Concealment,  overconscious,  show'd  ; 

Her  hand's  less  weight  upon  my  arm, 
Her   lovelier  mien  ;    that  match'd  with 
this  ; 

I  found,  and  felt  with  strange  alarm, 
I  stood  committed  to  my  bliss. 

I  grew  assur'd,  before  I  ask'd, 

That  she  'd  be  mine  without  reserve, 
And  in  her  uuclaim'd  graces  bask'd, 

At  leisure,  till  the  time  should  serve, 
With  just  enough  of  dread  to  thrill 

The  hope,  and  make  it  trebly  dear  ; 
Thus  loth  to  speak  the  word  to  kill 

Either  the  hope  or  happy  fear. 

Till  once,  through  lanes  returning  late, 

Her  laughing  sisters  lagg'd  behind  ; 
And,  ere  we  reach'd  her  father's  gate, 

We  paus'd  with  one  presentient  mind  ; 
And,  in  the  dim  and  perf  um'd  mist, 

Their  coming  stay'd,  who,  friends  to  me, 
And  very  women,  lov'd  to  assist 

Love's  timid  opportunity. 

Twice  rose,  twice  died  my  trembling  word  ; 

The  faint  and  frail  Cathedral  chimes 
Spake  time  in  music,  and  we  heard 

The  chafers  rustling  in  the  limes. 
Her  dress,  that  touch'd  me  where  I  stood, 

The  warmth  of  her  confided  arm, 
Her  bosom's  gentle  neighborhood, 

Her  pleasure  in  her  power  to  charm  ; 
Her  look,  her  love,  her  form,  her  touch, 

The  least  seem'd  most  by  blissful  turn, 
Blissful  but  that  it  pleas'd  too  much, 

And  taught  the  wayward  soul  to  yearn. 
It  was  as  if  a  harp  with  wires 

Was  travers'd  by  the  breath  I  drew ; 
And,  oh,  sweet  meeting  of  desires, 

She,  answering,  own'd  that  she  lov'd  too. 

Honoria  was  to  be  my  bride  ! 

The  hopeless  heights  of  hope  were  scal'd  ; 
The  summit  won,  I  paus'd  and  sigh'd, 

As  if  success  itself  had  fail'd. 
It  seem'd  as  if  my  lips  approach'd 

To  touch  at  Tantalus'  reward, 
And  rashly  on  Eden  life  encroach'd, 

Half-blinded  by  the  flaming  sword. 
The  whole  world's  wealthiest  and  its  best, 

So  fiercely  sought,  appear'd,  when  found, 
Poor  in  its  need  to  be  possess'd, 

Poor  from  its  very  want  of  bound. 


My  queen  was  crouching  at  my  side, 

By  love  unsceptred  and  brought  low, 
Her  awful  garb  of  maiden  pride 

All  melted  into  tears  like  snow  ; 
The  mistress  of  my  reverent  thought, 

Whose  praise  was  all  I  ask'd  of  fame, 
In  my  close-watch'd  approval  sought 

Protection  as  from  danger  and  blame  j 
Her  soul,  which  late  I  lov'd  to  invest 

With  pity  for  my  poor  desert, 
Buried  its  face  within  my  breast, 

Like  a  pet  fawn  by  hunters  hurt. 

THE   MARRIED   LOVER 
Why,  having  won  her,  do  I  woo  ? 

Because  her  spirit's  vestal  grace 
Provokes  me  always  to  pursue, 

But,  spirit-like,  eludes  embrace  ; 
Because  her  womanhood  is  such 

That,  as  ou  court-days  subjects  kiss 
The  Queen's  hand,  yet  so  near  a  touch 

Affirms  no  mean  familiarness, 
Nay,  rather  marks  more  fair  the  height 

Which  can  with  safety  so  neglect 
To  dread,  as  lower  ladies  might, 

That  grace  could  meet  with  disrespect, 
Thus  she  with  happy  favor  feeds 

Allegiance  from  a  love  so  high 
That  thence  no  false  conceit  proceeds 

Of  difference  bridged,  or  state  put  by  ; 
Because,  although  in  act  and  word 

As  lowly  as  a  wife  can  be, 
Her  manners,  when  they  call  me  lord, 

Remind  me  't  is  by  courtesy  ; 
Not  with  her  least  consent  of  will, 

Which  would  my  proud  affection  hurt, 
But  by  the  noble  style  that  still 

Imputes  an  unattain'd  desert ; 
Because  her  gay  and  lofty  brows, 

When  all  is  won  which  hope  can  ask, 
Reflect  a  light  of  hopeless  snows 

That  bright  in  virgin  ether  bask  ; 
Because,  though  free  of  the  outer  court 

I  am,  this  Temple  keeps  its  shrine 
Sacred  to  Heaven  ;  because,  in  short, 

She  'a  not  and  never  can  be  mine. 

Feasts  satiate  ;  stars  distress  with  height ; 

Friendship  means  well,  but  misses  reach, 
And  wearies  in  its  best  delight 

Vex'd  with  the  vanities  of  speech  ; 
Too  long  regarded,  roses  even 

Afflict  the  mind  with  fond  unrest ; 
And  to  converse  direct  with  Heaven 

Is  oft  a  labor  in  the  breast ; 


COVENTRY  PATMORE 


235 


Whate'er  the  up-looking  soul  admires, 

Whate'er  the  senses'  banquet  be, 
Fatigues  at  last  with  vain  desires, 

Or  sickens  by  satiety  ; 
But  truly  my  delight  was  more 

In  her  to  whom  I  'm  bound  for  aye 
Yesterday  than  the  day  before, 

And  more  to-day  than  yesterday. 

THE   GIRL   OF   ALL   PERIODS 

"AxD  even  our  women,"  lastly  grumbles 
Ben, 

"  Leaving  their  nature,  dress  and  talk  like 
men  ! " 

A  damsel,  as  our  train  stops  at  Five  Ashes, 

Down  to  the  station  in  a  dog-cart  dashes. 

A  footman  buys  her  ticket,  "  Third  class, 
parly  ; " 

And,  in  huge-button'd  coat  and  "  Cham- 
pagne Charley  " 

And  such  scant  manhood  else  as  use  allows 
her, 

Her  two  shy  knees  bound  in  a  single  trouser, 

With,  'twixt  her  shapely  lips,  a  violet 

Perch  d  as  a  proxy  for  a  cigarette, 

She  takes  her  window  in  our  smoking  car- 
riage, 

And  scans  us,  calmly  scorning  men  and 
marriage. 

Ben  frowns  in  silence  ;  older,  I  know  bet- 
ter 

Than  to  read  ladies  'havior  in  the  letter. 

This  aping  man  is  crafty  Love's  devising 

To  make  the  woman's  difference  more  sur- 
prising ; 

And,  as  for  feeling  wroth  at  such  rebelling, 

Who  'd  scold  the  child  for  now  and  then 
repelling 

Lures  with  "  I  won't !  "  or  for  a  moment's 
straying 

In  its  sure  growth  towards  more  full  obey- 
ing ? 

"Yes,  she  had  read  the  'Legend  of  the 
Ages,' 

And  George  Sand  too,  skipping  the  wicked 
pages." 

And,  whilst  we  talk'd,  her  protest  firm  and 
perky 

Against  mankind,  I  thought,  grew  lax  and 
jerky  ; 

And,  at  a  compliment,  her  mouth's  corn- 
pressure 

Nipp'd  in  its  birth  a  little  laugh  of  pleas- 
ure ; 


And  smiles,  forbidden  her  lips,  as  weakness 

horrid, 
Broke,  in  grave  lights,  from  eyes  and  chin 

and  forehead  ; 
And,  as  I  push'd  kind  'vantage  'gainst  the 

scorner, 

The  two  shy  knees  press'd  shyer  tc  the  cor- 
ner ; 

And  Ben  began  to  talk  with  her,  the  rather 
Because   he  found  out  that  he  knew  her 

father, 

Sir  Francis  Applegarth,  of  Fenny  Compton, 
And  danced  once  with  her  sister  Maude  at 

Brompton  ; 
And  then  he  star'd  until  he  quite  confus'd 

her, 
More  pleas 'd  with  her  than  I,  who  but  ex- 

cus'd  her  ; 
And,  when  she  got  out,  he,  with  sheepish 

glances, 
Said  he  'd  stop  too,  and  call  on  old  Sir 

Francis. 

FROM    "THE   UNKNOWN   EROS" 

.THE  TOYS 

MY  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thought- 
ful eyes 

And  mov'd  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up 
wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder 
sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my 
own  ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach, 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there 
with  careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 

So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 

To  God,  I  wept,  and  said  : 


236 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 

Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 

And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 

We  made  our  joys, 

How  weakly  understood 

Thy  great  commanded  good, 

Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the 

clay, 

Thou  'It  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

THE   TWO   DESERTS 

Not  greatly  mov'd  with  awe  am  1 
To  learn  that  we  may  spy 
Five  thousand  firmaments  beyond  our  own. 
The  best  that 's  known 
Of  the  heavenly  bodies  does  them  credit 

small. 

View'd  close,  the  Moon's  fair  ball 
Is  of  ill  objects  worst, 
A  corpse  in  Night's  highway,  naked,  fire- 

scarr'd,  accurst  ; 
And  now  they  tell 
That  the  Sun  is  plainly  seen  to  boil  and 

burst 

Too  horribly  for  hell. 
So,  judging  from  these  two, 
As  we  must  do, 

The  Universe,  outside  our  living  Earth, 
Was  all  conceiv'd  in  the  Creator's  mirth, 
Forecasting  at  the  time  Man's  spirit  deep, 
To  make  dirt  cheap. 
Put  by  the  Telescope  ! 
Better  without  it  man  may  see, 
Stretch'd  awful  in  the  hush'd  midnight, 
The  ghost  of  his  eternity. 


Give  me  the  nobler  glass  that  swells  to  the 

eye 

The  things  which  near  us  lie, 
Till  Science  rapturously  hails, 
In  the  minutest  water-drop, 
A  torment  of  innumerable  tails. 
These  at  the  least  do  live. 
But  rather  give 
A  mind  not  much  to  pry 
Beyond  our  royal-fair  estate 
Betwixt  these  deserts  blank  of  small  and 

great. 

Wonder  and  beauty  our  own  courtiers  are, 
Pressing'  to  catch  our  gaze, 
And  out  of  obvious  ways 
Ne'er  wandering  far. 

REGINA   COELI 

SAY,  did  his   sisters  wonder   what   could 

Joseph  see 

In  a  mild,  silent  little  Maid  like  thee  ? 
And  was  it  awful,  in  that  narrow  house, 
With  God  for  Babe  and  Spouse  ? 
Nay,  like  thy  simple,  female  sort,  each  one 
Apt  to  find  Him  in  Husband  and  in  Son, 
Nothing  to  thee  came  strange  in  this. 
Thy  wonder  was  but  wondrous  bliss  : 
Wondrous,  for,  though 
True  Virgin  lives  not  but  does  know, 
(Howbeit  none  ever  yet  confess'd,) 
That  God  lies  really  in  her  breast, 
Of  thine  He  made  His  special  nest  ! 
And  so 

All  mothers  worship  little  feet, 
And  kiss  the  very  ground  they  've  trod  ; 
But,  ah,  thy  little  Baby  sweet 
Who  was  indeed  thy  God  1 


i^altet  < 

DAUGHTERS   OF   PHILISTIA 

FROM   "OLRIG   GRANGE" 

LADY  ANNE  DEWHURST  on  a  crimson  couch 
Lay,  with  a  rug  of  sable  o'er  her  knees, 
In  a  bright  boudoir  in  Belgravia  ; 
Most  perfectly  array'd  in  shapely  robe 
Of  sumptuous  satin,  lit  up  here  and  there 
With  scarlet  touches,  and  with  costly  lace, 
Nice-finger'd  maidens  knotted  in  Brabant ; 


And  all  around  her  spread  magnificence 
Of  bronzes,  Sevres  vases,  marquetrie, 
Rare  buhl,  and  bric-a-brac  of  every  kind, 
From  Rome  and  Paris  and  the  centuries 
Of  far-off  beauty.     All  of  goodly  color, 
Or  graceful  form  that  could  delight  the 

eJe> 

In  orderly  disorder  lay  around, 
And    flowers   with    perfume    scented    the 

warm  air. 


WALTER  C.    SMITH 


237 


Stately  and  large  and  beautiful  was  she 
Spite  of  her  sixty  summers,  with  an  eye 
Train'd  to  soft  languors,  that  could  also 

flash, 
Keen   as    a    sword   and   sharp  —  a    black 

bright  eye, 

Deep  sunk  beneath  an  arch  of  jet.     She  had 
A  weary  look,  and  yet  the  weariness 
Seem'd  not  so  native  as  the  worldliuess 
Which     blended     with    it.      Weary    and 

worldly,  she 

Had  quite  resign'd  herself  to  misery 
In  this  sad  vale  of  tears,  but  fully  meant 
To  nurse  her  sorrow  in  a  sumptuous  fashion, 
And  make  it  an  expensive  luxury  ; 
For  nothing  she  esteem'd  that  nothing  cost. 

Beside  her,  on  a  table  round,  inlaid 

With  precious  stones   by  Roman   art  de- 

sign'd, 

Lay  phials,  scent,  a  novel  and  a  Bible, 
A  pill  box,  and  a  wine  glass,  and  a  book 
On  the  Apocalypse  ;  for  she  was  much 
Addicted  unto  physic  and  religion, 
And  her  physician  had  prescrib'd  for  her 
Jellies  and  wines  and  cheerful  Literature. 
The  Book  on  the  Apocalypse  was  writ 
By  her   chosen   pastor,   and   she   took  the 

novel 

With   the   dry  sherry,  and   the   pills   pre- 
scrib'd. 

A  gorgeous,  pious,  comfortable  life 
Of  misery  she  lived  ;  and  all  the  sins 
Of  all  her  house,  and  all  the  nation's  sins, 
And  all  shortcomings  of  the  Church  and 

State, 

And  all  the  sins  of  all  the  world  beside, 
Bore  as  her  special  cross,  confessing  them 
Vicariously  day  by  day,  and  then 
She  comforted  her  heart,  which  needed  it, 
With  bric-a-brac  and  jelly  and  old  wine. 

Beside  the  fire,  her  elbow  on  the  mantel, 
And  forehead  resting  on  her  finger-tips, 
Shading  a  face  where  sometimes  loom'd  a 

frown, 
And  sometimes  flash'd  a  gleam  of  bitter 

scorn, 
Her  daughter  stood ;  no  more  a  graceful 

girl» 

But  in  the  glory  of  her  womanhood, 
Stately  and  haughty.     One  who  might  have 

been 

A  noble  woman  in  a  nobler  world, 
But  now  was  only  woman  of  her  world  ; 


With  just  enough    of   better  thought  to 

know 

It  was  not  noble,  and  despise  it  all, 
And  most  herself  for  making  it  her  all. 
A  woman,  complex;  intricate,  involv'd  ; 
Wrestling  with  self,  yet  still  by  self  sub- 
dued ; 

Scorning  herself  for  being  what  she  was, 
And  yet  unable  to  be  that  she  would  ; 
Uneasy  with  the  sense  of  possible  good 
Never  attain'd,  nor  sought,  except  in  fits 
Ending  in  failures  ;  conscious,  too,  of  power 
Which  found  no  purpose  to  direct  its  force, 
And  so  came  back  upon  herself,  and  grew 
An  inward   fret.     The   caged  bird  some- 
times dash'd 
Against  the  wires,  and  sometimes  sat  and 

pin'd, 
But  mainly  peck'd  her  sugar,  and  eyed  her 

glass, 

And  trill'd  her  graver  thoughts  away  in 
song. 

Mother  and    daughter  —  yet    a    childless 

mother, 
And    motherless    her    daughter ;    for    the 

world 

Had  gash'd  a  chasm  between,  impassable, 
And  they  had  nought  in  common,  neither 

love, 

Nor  hate,  nor  anything  except  a  name. 
Yet  both  were  of  the  world;  and  she  not 

least 
Whose   world  was  the  religious  one,  and 

stretch 'd 
A  kind  of  isthmus  'tween  the  Devil  and 

God, 

A  slimy,  oo/y  mud,  where  mandrakes  grew, 
Ghastly,  with  intertwisted  roots,  and  things 
Amphibious  haunted,  and  the  leathern  bat 
Flicker'd  about  its  twilight  evermore. 

THE    SELF-EXILED 

THERE  came  a  soul  to  the  gate  of  Heaven 

Gliding  slow  — 
A  soul  that  was  ransom'd  and  forgiven, 

And  white  as  snow  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

A  mystic  light  beam'd  from  the  face 

Of  the  radiant  maid, 
But  there  also  lay  on  its  tender  grace 

A  mystic  shade  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


238 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


As  sunlit  clouds  by  a  zephyr  borne 

Seem  not  to  stir, 
So  to  the  golden  gates  of  morn 

They  carried  her  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

u  Now  open  the  gate,  and  let  her  in, 

And  fling  it  wide, 

For  she  has  been  cleans'd  from  stain  of 
sin," 

St.  Peter  cried  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

11  Though  I  am  cleans'd  from  stain  of  sin," 

She  answer'd  low, 
"  I  came  not  hither  to  enter  in, 

Nor  may  I  go  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  come,"  she  said,  "  to  the  pearly  door, 

To  see  the  Throne 
Where  sits  the  Lamb  on  the  Sapphire  Floor, 

With  God  alone  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  come  to  hear  the  new  song  they  sing 

To  Him  that  died, 
And  note  where  the  healing  waters  spring 

From  His  pierced  side  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  But  I  may  not  enter  there,"  she  said, 

"  For  I  must  go 
Across  the  gulf  where  the  guilty  dead 

Lie  in  their  woe  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  If  I  enter  heaven  I  may  not  pass 

To  where  they  be, 
Though  the  wail  of  their  bitter  pain,  alas  ! 

Tormenteth  me  : " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  If  I  enter  heaven  I  may  not  speak 

My  soul's  desire 

For  them  that  are   lying   distraught   and 
weak 

In  flaming  fire  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  had  a  brother,  and  also  another 

Whom  I  lov'd  well  ; 
What  if,  in  anguish,  they  curse  each  other 

In  the  depths  of  hell  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


"  How  could  I  touch  the  golden  harps, 

When  all  my  praise 
Would  be  so  wrought  with  grief-full  warps 

Of  their  sad  days  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  How  love  the  lov'd  who  are  sorrowingj 

And  yet  be  glad  ? 
How  sing  the  songs  ye  are  fain  to  sing, 

While  I  am  sad  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Oh,  clear  as  glass  is  the  golden  street 

Of  the  city  fair, 
And  the  tree  of  life  it  maketh  sweet 

The  lightsome  air  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  And   the   white-rob'd    saints   with   their 
crowns  and  palms 

Are  good  to  see, 
And  oh,  so  grand  are  the  sounding  psalms  1 

But  not  for  me  :  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  I  come  where  there  is  no  night,"  she  said, 

"  To  go  away, 
And  help,  if  I  yet  may  help,  the  dead 

That  have  no  day." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

St.  Peter  he  turned  the  keys  about, 

And  answer* d  grim  : 

".  Can  you  love  the  Lord,  and  abide  with- 
out, 

Afar  from  Him  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Can  you  love  the  Lord  who  died  for  yon, 

And  leave  the  place 
Where  His  glory  is  all  disclos'd  to  view, 

And  tender  grace  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  They  go  not  out  who  come  in  here  ; 

It  were  not  meet  : 
Nothing  they  lack,  for  He  is  here, 

And  bliss  complete." 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Should  I  be  nearer  Christ,"  she  said, 

"  By  pitying  less 
The  sinful  living  or  woeful  dead 

In  their  helplessness  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 


W.  C.  SMITH  — PALGRAVE 


239 


"  Should  I  be  liker  Christ  were  I 

To  love  no  more 
The  lov'd,  who  in  their  anguish  lie 

Outside  the  door  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Did  He  not  hang  on  the  curs'd  tree, 

And  bear  its  shame, 
And  clasp  to  His  heart,  for  love  of  me, 

My  guilt  and  blame  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  Should  I  be  liker,  nearer  Him, 

Forgetting  this, 
Singing  all  day  with  the  Seraphim, 

In  selfish  bliss  ?  " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

The  Lord  Himself  stood  by  the  gate, 
And  heard  her  speak 


Those  tender  words  compassionate, 

Gentle  and  meek  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

Now,  pity  is  the  touch  of  God 

In  human  hearts, 
And  from  that  way  He  ever  trod 

He  ne'er  departs  : 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

And  He  said,  "  Now  will  I  go  with  you, 

Dear  child  of  love, 
I  ana  weary  of  all  this  glory,  too, 

In  heaven  above  : " 
And  the  angels  all  were  silent. 

"  We  will  go  seek  and  save  the  lost, 

If  they  will  hear, 
They  who  are  worst  but  need  me  most, 

And  all  are  dear  :  " 
And  the  angels  were  not  silent. 


j?rand£  burner 


THE   ANCIENT   AND    MODERN 
MUSES 

THE  monument  outlasting  bronze 

Was  promis'd  well  by  bards  of  old  ; 
The  lucid  outline  of  their  lay 
Its  sweet  precision  keeps  for  aye, 
Fix'd  in  the  ductile  language-gold. 

But  we  who  work  with  smaller  skill, 

And  less  refin'd  material  mould,  — 
This  close  conglomerate  English  speech, 
Bequest  of  many  tribes,  that  each 

Brought   here  and  wrought  at  from  of 
old, 

Residuum  rough,  eked  out  by  rhyme, 

Barbarian  ornament  uncouth,  — 
Our  hope  is  less  to  last  through  Art 
Than  deeper  searching  of  the  heart, 
Than  broader  range  of  utter'd  truth. 

One  keen-cut  group,  one  deed  or  aim 
Athenian  Sophocles  could  show, 

And     rest     content  ;     but     Shakespeare's 
stage 

Must  hold  the  glass  to  every  age,  — 
A  thousand  forms  and  passions  glow 


Upon  the  world-wide  canvas.     So 
With  larger  scope  our  art  we  play  ; 

And  if  the  crown  be  harder  won, 

Diviner  rays  around  it  run, 

With  strains  of  fuller  harmony. 


PRO    MORTUIS 

WHAT  should  a  man  desire  to  leave  ? 
A  flawless  work  ;  a  noble  life  : 
Some  music  harmoniz'd  from  strife, 
Some  finish'd  thing,  ere  the  slack  hands  at 

eve 
Drop,  should  be  his  to  leave. 

One  gem  of  song,  defying  age  ; 

A  hard-won  fight  ;  a  well-work'd  farm; 
A  law  no  guile  can  twist  to  harm  ; 
Some  tale,  as  our  lost  Thackeray's  bright, 

or  sage 
As  the  just  Hallam's  page. 

Or,  in  life's  homeliest,  meanest  spot, 
With  temperate  step  from  year  to  year 
To  move  within  his  little  sphere, 
Leaving  a  pure  name  to  be  known,  or  not,  — 
This  is  a  true  man's  lot. 


240 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


He  dies  :  he  leaves  the  deed  or  name, 
A  gift  forever  to  his  land, 
In  trust  to  Friendship's  prudent  hand, 
Round  'gainst  all  adverse  shocks  to  guard 

his  fame, 
Or  to  the  world  proclaim. 

But  the  imperfect  thing  or  thought,  — 
The  crudities  and  yeast  of  youth, 
The  dubious  doubt,  the  twilight  truth, 
The   work   that   for   the  passing  day  was 

wrought, 
The  schemes  that  came  to  nought, 

The   sketch   half-way  'twixt   verse   and 

prose 

That  mocks  the  finish'd  picture  true, 
The  quarry  whence  the  statue  grew, 
The  scaffolding  'neath  which  the  palace  rose, 
The  vague  abortive  throes 

And  fever-fits  of  joy  or  gloom  :  — 
In  kind  oblivion  let  them  be  ! 
Nor  has  the  dead  worse  foe  than  he 
Who  rakes  these  sweepings  of  the  artist's 

room, 
And  piles  them  on  his  tomb. 

Ah,  't  is  but  little  that  the  best, 
Frail  children  of  a  fleeting  hour, 
Can  leave  of  perfect  fruit  or  flower  ! 
Ah,  let  all  else  be  graciously  supprest 
When  man  lies  down  to  rest ! 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

1845 

GENTLE  and  grave,  in  simple  dress, 
And  features  by  keen  mountain  air 
Moulded  to  solemn  ruggedness, 
The  man  we  came  to  see  sat  there  : 
Not  apt  for  speech,  nor  quickly  stirr'd 
Unless  when  heart  to  heart  replied; 
A  bearing  equally  remov'd 
From  vain  display  or  sullen  pride. 

The  sinewy  frame  yet  spoke  of  one 
Known  to  the  hillsides  :  on  his  head 
Some  five-and-seventy  winters  gone 
Their  crown  of  perfect  white  had  shed:  — 
As  snow-tipp'd  summits  toward  the  sun 
In  calm  of  lonely  radiance  press, 
Touch'd  by  the  broadening  light  of  death 
With  a  serener  pensiveness. 


O  crown  of  venerable  age  ! 
O  brighter  crown  of  well-spent  years  ! 
The  bard,  the  patriot,  and  the  sage, 
The  heart  that  never  bow'd  to  fears  ! 
That  was  an  age  of  soaring  souls  ; 
Yet  none  with  a  more  liberal  scope 
Survey'd  the  sphere  of  human  things  : 
None  with  such  manliness  of  hope. 

Others,  perchance,  as  keenly  felt, 
As  musically  sang  as  he  ; 
To  Nature  as  devoutly  knelt, 
Or  toil'd  to  serve  humanity  : 
But  none  with  those  ethereal  notes, 
That  star-like  sweep  of  self-control ; 
The  insight  into  worlds  unseen, 
The  lucid  sanity  of  soul. 

The  fever  of  our  fretful  life, 
The  autumn  poison  of  the  air, 
The  soul  with  its  own  self  at  strife, 
He  saw  and  felt,  but  could  not  share  : 
With  eye  made  clear  by  pureness,  pierced 
The  life  of  Man  and  Nature  through  ; 
And  read  the  heart  of  common  things, 
Till  new  seem'd  old,  and  old  was  new. 

To  his  own  self  not  always  just, 

Bound  in  the  bonds  that  all  men  share,  — 

Confess  the  failings  as  we  must, 

The  lion's  mark  is  always  there  ! 

Nor  any  song  so  pure,  so  great 

Since  his,  who  closed  the  sightless  eyes, 

Our  Homer  of  the  war  in  Heaven, 

To  wake  in  his  own  Paradise. 

O  blaring  trumpets  of  the  world  ! 
O  glories,  in  their  budding  sere  ! 
O  flaunting  roll  of  Fame  unfurl'd  ! 
Here  was  the  king  —  the  hero  here  ! 
It  was  a  strength  and  joy  for  life 
In  that  great  presence  once  to  be  ; 
That  on  the  boy  he  gently  smil'd, 
That  those  white  hands  were  laid  on  me. 

A   LITTLE    CHILD'S   HYMN 

FOR   NIGHT    AND   MORNING 

THOU  that  once,  on  mother's  knee, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me, 
When  I  wake  or  go  to  bed 
Lay  thy  hands  about  my  head  : 
Let  me  feel  thee  very  near, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear. 


PALGRAVE—  HUXLEY 


241 


Be  beside  me  in  the  light, 
Close  by  me  through  all  the  night  ; 
Make  me  gentle,  kind,  and  true, 
Do  what  mother  bids  me  do  ; 
Help  and  cheer  me  when  I  fret, 
And  forgive  when  I  forget. 

Once  wast  thou  in  cradle  laid, 
Baby  bright  in  manger-shade, 
With  the  oxen  and  the  cows, 
And  the  lambs  outside  the  house  : 
Now  thou  art  above  the  sky  : 
Canst  thou  hear  a  baby  cry  ? 

Thou  art  nearer  when  we  pray, 
Since  thou  art  so  far  away  ; 
Thou  my  little  hymn  wilt  hear, 
Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour  dear, 
Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee, 
Wast  a  little  one  like  me. 


A   DANISH    BARROW 

ON  THE  EAST  DEVON  COAST 

LIE  still,  old  Dane,  below  thy  heap  ! 
A  sturdy-back  and  sturdy-limb, 
Whoe'er  he  was,  I  warrant  him 

Upon  whose  mound  the  single  sheep 
Browses  and  tinkles  in  the  sun, 
Within  the  narrow  vale  alone. 

Lie  still,  old  Dane  !     This  restful  scene 
Suits  well  thy  centuries  of  sleep  : 
The  soft  brown  roots  above  thee  creep, 


The  lotus  flaunts  his  ruddy  sheen, 
And,  —  vain  memento  of  the  spot,  — 
The  turquoise-eyed  forget-me-not. 

Lie  still !     Thy  mother-land  herself 
Would  know  thee  not  again  :  no  more 
The  Raven  from  the  northern  shore 

Hails  the  bold  crew  to  push  for  pelf, 

Through  fire  and  blood  and  slaughtersd 

kings 
'Neath  the  black  terror  of  his  wings. 

And  thou,  —  thy  very  name  is  lost ! 
The  peasant  only  knows  that  here 
Bold  Alfred  scoop'd  thy  flinty  bier, 

And  pray'd  a  foeman's  prayer,  and  tost 
His  auburn  head,  and  said,  "  One  more 
Of    England's    foes    guards    England's 
shore," 

And  turn'd  and  pass'd  to  other  feats, 
And  left  thee  in  thine  iron  robe, 
To  circle  with  the  circling  globe, 

While  Time's  corrosive  dewdrop  eats 
The  giant  warrior  to  a  crust 
Of  earth  in  earth,  and  rust  in  rust. 

So  lie  :  and  let  the  children  play 
And  sit  like  flowers  upon  thy  grave 
And  crown  with  flowers,  —  that  hardly 
have 

A  briefer  blooming-tide  than  they  ;  — 
By  hurrying  years  urged  on  to  rest, 
As  thou,  within  the  Mother's  breast. 


TENNYSON 

(WESTMINSTER  ABBEY:  OCTOBER  12,  1892) 
GIB   DIESEN   TODTEN   MIR   HERAUS 

(The  Minster  speaks) 

BRING  me  my  dead  ! 
To  me  that  have  grown, 
Stone  laid  upon  stone, 
As  the  stormy  brood 
Of  English  blood 
Has  wax'd  and  spread 
And  fill'd  the  world, 
With  sails  unfurl'd  ; 


!  1 


With  men  that  may  not  lie  ; 
With  thoughts  that  cannot  die. 

Bring  me  my  dead  ! 

Into  the  storied  hall, 

Where  I  have  garner'd  all 

My  harvest  without  weed  ; 

My  chosen  fruits  of  goodly  seed  , 

And  lay  him  gently  down  among 

The  men  of  state,  the  men  of  song  : 

The  men  that  would  not  suffer  wrong  : 

The  thought-worn  chieftains  of  the  mind ; 

Head-servants  of  the  human  kind. 


1  Don  Carlos. 


242 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Bring  me  my  dead  ! 

The  autumn  sun  shall  shed 

Its  beams  athwart  the  bier's 

Heap'd  blooms  :  a  many  tears 

Shall  flow  ;  his  words,  in  cadence  sweet  and 

strong, 
Shall  voice   the   full  hearts  of  the  silent 

throng. 
Bring  me  my  dead  1 


And  oh  !  sad  wedded  mourner,  seeking  still 
For  vanish'd  hand  clasp  :  drinking  in  thy 

Of  holy  grief  ;  forgive,  that  pious  theft 
Robs  thee  of  all,  save  memories,  left  : 
Not  thine  to  kneel  beside  the  grassy  mound 
While  dies  the  western  glow  ;  and  all  around 
Is  silence  ;  and  the  shadows  closer  creep 
And  whisper  softly  :  All  must  fall  asleep. 


DORIS:  A  PASTORAL 

I  SAT  with  Doris,  the  shepherd-maiden  ; 
Her    crook    was    laden    with   wreathed 

flowers  : 
I    sat   and    woo'd    her,   through    sunlight 

wheeling 

And   shadows   stealing,   for    hours    and 
hours. 

And  she,  my  Doris,  whose  lap  encloses 

Wild  summer-roses  of  sweet  perfume, 
The  while   I  sued   her,   kept   hush'd   and 

hearken'd, 

Till  shades  had  darken'd  from  gloss  to 
gloom. 

She  touch'd  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger; 
She  said,  "  We  linger,  we  mast  not  stay  : 
My  flock 's  in  danger,  my  sheep  will  wan- 
der ; 

Behold    them    yonder,    how    far    they 
stray !  " 

I  answer'd  bolder,  "  Nay,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  still  be  near  you,  and  still  adore  ! 

No  wolf  nor  stranger  will  touch  one  year- 
ling : 
Ah  !  stay,  my  darling,  a  moment  more  !  " 

She    whisper'd,   sighing,   "  There   will   be 
sorrow 

Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day  ; 
My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded, 

I  shall  be  scolded  and  sent  away." 

Said  I,  denying,  "  If  they  do  miss  you, 
They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get 
home  ; 


And  well  rewarded  by  friend  and  neighbor 
Should   be   the   labor   from    which   you 
come." 

"  They   might    remember,"   she    answer'd 

meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly,  and  sheep  are 

wild  ; 

But  if  they  love  me,  it 's  none  so  fervent : 
I  am  a  servant,  and  not  a  child." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glow'd  within  me, 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 

"  Ah  !  do   but   prove  me  ;  and  none  shall 

bind  you, 
Nor  fray  nor  find  you,  until  I  die." 

She  blush'd  and  started,  and  stood  await- 
ing, 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine  ; 
But  I  did  brave  them  ;  I  told  her  plainly 

She  doubted  vainly,  she  must  be  mine. 

So  we,  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  her  nibbling  ewes  ; 

And  homeward  drave  them,  we  two  together, 
Through  blooming  heather  and  gleaming 
dews. 

That  simple  duty  fresh  grace  did  lend  her, 
My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true  ; 

That  I,  her  warder,  did  always  bless  her, 
And  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling, 
With  love  excelling,  and  undefiTd  ; 

And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and 

fervent, 
No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child, 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY 


243 


FROM    "DOROTHY:   A  COUNTRY 
STORY" 

DOROTHY 

DOROTHY  goes  with  her  pails  to  the  ancient 

well  in  the  courtyard 
Daily  at  gray  of  morn,  daily  ere  twilight 

at  eve  ; 
Often  and  often  again  she  winds   at   the 

mighty  old  windlass, 
Still  with  her  strong  red  arms  landing 

the  bucket  aright  : 
Then,  her  beechen  yoke  press'd  down  on 

her  broad  square  shoulders, 
Stately,  erect,  like  a  queen,  she  with  her 

burden  returns  : 
She  with  her  burden  returns  to  the  fields 

that  she  loves,  to  the  cattle 
Lowing   beside  the  troughs,  welcoming 

her  and  her  pails. 
Dorothy  —  who  is  she  ?     She  is  only  a  ser- 

vant-of-all-work  ; 
Servant  at  White  Rose  Farm,  under  the 

cliff  in  the  vale  : 
Under  the  sandstone  cliff,  where  martins 

build  in  the  springtime, 
Hard  by  the  green  level  meads,  hard  by 

the  streams  of  the  Yore. 
Oh,  what  a  notable  lass  is  our  Dolly,  the 

pride  of  the  dairy  ! 
Stalwart  and  tall  as  a  man,  strong  as  a 

heifer  to  work  : 
Built  for  beauty,  indeed,  but  certainly  built 

for  labor  — 

Witness  her  muscular  arm,  witness  the 
grip  of  her  hand  ! 


Weakly  her  mistress  was,  and  weakly  the 

two  little  daughters  ; 
But  by  her  master's  side  Dorothy  wrought 

like  a  son  : 
Wrought  out  of  doors  on  the  farm,   and 

labor'd  in  dairy  and  kitchen, 
Doing  the  work  of  two  ;  help  and  sup- 
port of  them  all. 
Rough  were  her  broad  brown  hands,  and 

within,  ah  me  !  they  were  horny  ; 
Rough     were    her    thick    ruddy    arms, 

shapely  and  round  as  they  were  ; 
Rough  too  her  glowing  cheeks  ;  and  her 

sunburnt  face  and  forehead 
Browner  than  cairngorm  seem'd,  set  in 
her  amber-bright  hair. 


Yet  't  was  a  handsome  face  ;  the  beautiful 

regular  features 
Labor  could  never  spoil,  ignorance  could 

not  degrade  : 
And  in  her  clear  blue  eyes  bright  gleams 

of  intelligence  linger'd  ; 
And  on  her  warm  red  mouth,  Love  might 

have  'lighted  and  lain. 
Never  an  unkind  word  nor  a  rude  unseemly 

expression 
Came  from  that  soft  red  mouth  ;  nor  in 

those  sunny  blue  eyes 
Lived  there  a  look  that  belied  the  frankness 

of  innocent  girlhood  — 
Fearless,  because  it  is   pure  ;   gracious, 

and  gentle,  and  calm. 
Have  you  not  seen  such  a  face,  among  rural 

hardworking  maidens 
Born  but  of  peasant  stock,  free  from  our 

Dorothy's  shame  ? 
Just   such   faces  as  hers  —  a   countenance 

open  and  artless, 
Where  no  knowledge  appears,  culture, 

nor  vision  of  grace  ; 
Yet  which  an  open-air  life  and  simple  and 

strenuous  labor 
Fills  with  a  charm  of  its  own  —  precious, 

and  warm  from  the  heart  ? 
Hers  was  full  of  that  charm  ;  and  besides, 

was  something  ennobled, 
Something  adoru'd,  by  thoughts  due  to  a 

gentle  descent  : 
So  that  a  man  should  say,  if  he  saw  her 

afield  at  the  milking, 
Or  with  her  sickle  at  work  reaping  the 

barley  or  beans, 
"  There  is  a  strapping  wench  —  a  lusty  lass 

of  a  thousand, 
"  Able   to   fend  for  herself,  fit   for   the 

work  of  a  man  !  " 
But  if  he  came  more  near,  and  she  lifted 

her  face  to  behold  him, 
"  Ah,"  he  would  cry,  "  what  a  change  ! 

Surely  a  lady  is  here  !  " 
Yes  —  if  a  lady  be  one  who  is  gracious  and 

quiet  in  all  things, 
Thinking  no  evil  at  all,  helpful  wherever 

she  can  ; 
Then   too   at  White   Rose   Farm,  by   the 

martins'  cliff  in  the  valley, 
There  was  a  lady  ;  and  she  was  but  the 

servant  of  all. 

True,  when  she  spoke,  her  speech  was  the 
homely  speech  of  the  country  ; 


244 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Rough  with  quaint  antique  words,  pic- 
turesque sayings  of  old  : 
And,  for  the  things  that  she  said,  they  were 

nothing  but  household  phrases  — 
News  of  the  poultry  and  kiiie,  tidings  of 

village  and  home  ; 
But  there    was   something   withal    in   her 

musical  voice  and  her  manner 
Gave  to  such  workaday  talk  touches  of 

higher  degree. 
•So  too,  abroad  and  alone,  when  she  saw  the 

sun  rise  o'er  the  meadows, 
Or  amid  golden  clouds  saw  him  descend- 
ing at  eve  ; 
Though   no   poetic  thought,  no   keen  and 

rapturous  insight, 
Troubled  her  childlike  soul,  yet  she  could 

wonder  and  gaze  ; 
Yet  she  could  welcome  the  morn  for   its 

beauty  as  well  as  its  brightness 
And,  in  the  evening  glow,  think  —  not  of 
supper  alone. 

COUNTRY   KISSES 

Curious,  the  ways  of  these  folk  of  humble 

and  hardy  condition  : 
Kisses,  amongst  ourselves,  bless  me,  how 

much  they  imply  ! 

Ere  you   can   come   to   a  kiss,  you  must 
scale    the   whole  gamut  of    court- 
ship — 
Introduction  first  ;  pretty  attentions  and 

words  ; 
Tentative  looks  ;  and  at  length,  perhaps  the 

touch  of  a  finger  ; 

Then  the  confession  ;  and  then  (if  she  al- 
low it)  the  kiss. 
So  that  a  kiss  comes  last  —  't  is  the  crown 

and  seal  of  the  whole  thing  ; 
Passion  avow'd  by  you,  fondly  accepted 

by  her. 
But  in    our  Dorothy's    class,  a   kiss   only 

marks  the  beginning  : 
Comes  me  a  light-hearted  swain,  think- 
ing of  nothing  at  all  ; 
Flings  his  fustian  sleeve  round  the  ample 

waist  of  the  maiden  ; 
Kisses  her  cheek,  and  she  —  laughingly 

thrusts  him  away. 

Why,  't  is  a  matter  of  course  ;  every  good- 
looking  damsel  expects  it ; 
'T  is  but  the  homage,  she  feels,  paid  to  her 
beauty  by  men  : 


So  that,  at  Kiss-in-the-Ring  —  an  innocent 

game  and  a  good  one  — 
Strangers  in  plenty  may  kiss  :  nay,  she 
pursues,  in  her  turn. 

DOROTHY'S  ROOM 

'T  was   but  a  poor  little  room  :   a  farm- 
servant's  loft  in  a  garret  ; 
One  small  window  and  door  ;   never  a 

chimney  at  all  ; 
One  little  stool  by  the  bed,  and  a  remnant 

of  cast-away  carpet  ; 
But  on  the  floor,  by  the  wall,  carefully 

dusted  and  bright, 
Stood  the  green-painted  box,  our  Dorothy's 

closet  and  wardrobe, 
Holding  her  treasures,  her  all  —  all  that 

she  own'd  in  the  world  ! 
Linen  and  hosen  were  there,  coarse  linen 

and  home-knitted  hosen  ; 
Handkerchiefs  bought  at  the  fair,  aprons 

and  smocks  not  a  few  ; 
Kirtles  for  warmth  when  afield,  and  frocks 

for  winter  and  summer, 
Blue  -  spotted,   lilac,  gray  ;    cotton   and 

woolen  and  serge  ; 
All  her  simple  attire,  save  the  clothes  she 

felt  most  like  herself  in  — 
Rough,  coarse  workaday  clothes,  fit  for 

a  laborer's  wear. 
There  was  her  Sunday  array  —  the  boots, 

and  the  shawl,  and  the  bonnet, 
Solemnly  folded  apart,  not  to  be  lightly 

assumed  ; 
There  was  her  jewelry,  too  :  't  was  a  brooch 

(she  had  worn  it  this  evening) 
Made   of   cairngorm   stone  —  really  too 

splendid  for  her ! 
Which  on  a  Martlemas  Day  Mr.  Robert 

had  bought  for  a  fairing  : 
Little  she  thought,  just  then,  how  she 

would  value  it  now  ! 
As  for  her  sewing  gear,  her  housewife,  her 

big  brass  thimble, 
Knitting  and  suchlike  work,  such  as  her 

fingers  could  do, 

That  was  away  downstairs,  in  a  dresser- 
drawer  in  the  kitchen, 
Ready  for  use  of  a  night,  when  she  was 

tidied  and  clean. 
Item,  up  there  in  the  chest  were  her  books : 

"  The  Dairyman's  Daughter  ;  " 
Ballads  ;    "  The  Olney  Hymns  ;  "  Bible 
and  Prayer-book,  of  course  : 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY 


245 


That  was  her  library  ;  these  were  the  limits 

of  Dorothy's  reading  ; 
Wholesome,  but  scanty  indeed  :    was  it 

then  all  that  she  knew  ? 
Nay,  for  like  other  good   girls,  she   had 

profited  much  by  her  schooling 
Under  the  mighty  three  —  Nature,  and 

Labor,  and  Life  : 
Mightier  they  than  books  ;  if  books  could 

have  only  come  after, 
Thoughts  of   instructed  minds   filtering 

down  into  hers. 
That  was  impossible  now  ;   what  she  had 

been,  she  was,  and  she  would  be  ; 
Only  a  farm-serving  lass  —  only  a  peas- 
ant, I  fear ! 

Well  —  on  that  green-lidded  box,  her  name 

was  painted  in  yellow  ; 
Dorothy  Crump  were  the  words.    Crump  ? 

What  a  horrible  name  ! 
Yes,  but  they  gave  it  to  her,  because  (like 

the  box)  't  was  her  mother's  ; 
Ready  to  hand  —  though  of  course  she 

had  no  joy  in  the  name  : 
She  had  no  kin  —  and   indeed,  she  never 

had  needed  a  surname  ; 
Never  had  used  one   at  all,  never  had 

made  one  her  own  : 
"  Dolly  "  she  was  to  herself,  and  to  every 

one  else  she  was  "  Dolly  "  ; 
Nothing  but  "  Dolly  "  ;  and  so,  that  was 

enough  for  a  name. 
Thus  then,  her  great,  green  box,  her  one 

undoubted  possession, 
Stood  where   it  was  ;   like   her,  "  never 

went  nowhere  "  at  all  ; 
Waited,  perhaps,  as  of  old,  some  beautiful 

Florentine  bride-chest, 
Till,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  He,  the  Be- 
loved, appears. — 
Was  there  naught  else  in  her  room  ?  nothing 

handy  for  washing  or  dressing  ? 
Yes  ;   on  a  plain  deal  stand,  basin,  and 

ewer,  and  dish  : 
All  of  them  empty,  unused  ;  for  the  sink 

was  the  place  of  her  toilet ; 
Save  on  a  Sunday  —  and   then,  she  too 

could  dress  at  her  ease  ; 
Then,  by  the  little  sidewall  of  the  diamonded 

dormer-window 
She  at  a  sixpenny  glass  brush' d  out  her 

bonny  bright  hair. 

Ah,  what  a  poor  little  room  !     Would  you 
like  to  sleep  in  it,  ladies  ? 


Innocence  sleeps  there  unharm'd  ;  Honor, 

and  Beauty,  and  Peace  — 
Love,  too,  has  come  ;  and  with  these,  even 

dungeons  were  easily  cheerful  ; 
But,   for  our   Dorothy's  room,  it   is  no 

dungeon  at  all. 
No !     through   the   latticed   panes   of   the 

diamonded  dormer-window 
Dorothy  looks  on  a  world  free  and  fa«- 

miliar  and  fair  : 
Looks   on  the  fair   farm-yard,  where  the 

poultry  and  cattle  she  lives  with 
Bellow  and  cackle  and  low  —  music  de- 
lightful to  her  ; 

Looks  on  the  fragrant  fields,  with  cloud- 
shadows  flying  above  them, 
Singing  of  birds  in  the  air,  woodlands 

and  waters  around. 
She  in  those  fragrant  meads  has  wrought, 

every  year  of  her  girlhood  ; 
Over   those   purple   lauds  she,  too,  has 

follow'd  the  plough  ; 
And,  like  a  heifer  afield,  or  a  lamb  that  is 

yean'd  in  the  meadows, 
She,  to  herself  and  to  us,  seems  like  a 
part  of  it  all. 

BEAUTY   AT   THE   PLOUGH 

Thus  then,  one  beautiful  day,  in  the  sweet, 

cool  air  of  October, 
High  up  on  Breakheart  Field,  under  the 

skirts  of  the  wood, 
Dolly  was  ploughing  :    she  wore  (why  did 

I  not  sooner  describe  it  ?) 
Just  such  a  dress  as  they  all  —  all  the 

farm-servants  around  ; 
Only,  it  seem'd  to  be  hers  by  a  right  divine 

and  a  fitness  — 
Color  and  pattern  and  shape  suited  so 

aptly  to  her. 

First,  on  her  well-set  head  a  lilac  hood- 
bonnet  of  cotton, 
Framing  her  amberbright  hair,  shading 

her  neck  from  the  sun  ; 
Then,  on  her  shoulders  a  shawl  ;  a  coarse 

red  kerchief  of  woolen, 
Matching  the  glow  of  her  cheeks,  lighting 

her  berry-brown  skin  ; 
Then  came  a  blue  cotton  frock —  dark  blue, 

and  spotted  with  yellow  — 
Sleev'd  to  the  elbows  alone,  leaving  her 

bonny  arms  bare  ; 

So  that  those  ruddy  brown  arms,  with  the 
dim,  dull  blue  for  a  background 


246 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Seem'd   not   so  rough  as   they  were  — 

softer  in  color  and  grain. 
All  round  her  ample  waist  her  frock  was 

gather'd  and  kilted, 
Showing  her  kirtle,  that  hung  down  to 

the  calf  of  the  leg  : 
Lancashire   linsey  it  was,  with   bands   of 

various  color 
Striped  on  a  blue-gray  ground :  sober, 

and  modest,  and  warm  ; 
Showing  her  stout  firm  legs,  made  stouter 

by  home-knitted  stockings  ; 
Ending  in  strong  laced  boots,  such  as  a 

ploughman  should  wear  : 
Big  solid   ironshod   boots,  that  added   an 

inch  to  her  stature  ; 
Studded   with   nails    underneath,   shoed 

like  a  horse,  at  the  heels. 
After  a  day  at  plough,  all  clotted  with 

earth  from  the  furrows, 
Oh,  how  unlike   were   her   boots,  Rosa 
Matilda,  to  yours  1 

FLOS    FLORUM 

ONE  only  rose  our  village  maiden  wore  ; 
Upon  her  breast  she  wore  it,  in  that  part 
Where  many  a  throbbing  pulse  doth  heave 

and  start 
At  the  mere  thought  of  Love  and  his  sweet 

lore. 

No  polish'd  gems  hath  she,  no  moulded  ore, 
Nor  any  other  masterpiece  of  art : 
She   hath  but   Nature's   masterpiece,  her 

heart ; 

And  that  show'd  ruddy  as  the  rose  she  bore 
Because  that  he,  who  sought  for  steadfast- 
ness 

Vainly  in  other  maids,  had  found  it  bare 
Under  the  eyelids  of  this  maiden  fair, 
Under  the  folds  of  her  most  simple  dress. 
She  let  him  find  it  ;  for  she  lov'd  him,  too, 
As  he  lov'd  her  :  and  all  this  tale  is  true. 

SWEET  NATURE'S  VOICE 

FROM   "SUSAN:    A    POEM    OF    DEGREES" 

HER  Master  gave  the  signal,  with  a  look  : 

Then,  timidly  as  if  afraid,  she  took 

In  her  rough  hands  the  Laureate's  dainty 

book, 
And  straight  began.      But  when  she  did 

begin, 
Her  own  mute  sense  of  poesy  within 


Broke  forth  to  hail  the  poet,  and  to  greet 
His  graceful  fancies  and  the  accents  sweet 
In  which  they  are  express'd.     Oh,  lately 

lost, 

Long  loved,  long  honor'd,  and  whose  Cap- 
tain's post 

No  living  bard  is  competent  to  fill  — 
How  strange,  to  the  deep  heart  that  now  is 

still, 

And  to  the  vanish'd  hand,  and  to  the  ear 
Whose  soft  melodious  measures  are  so  dear 
To  us  who  cannot  rival  them  —  how  strange, 
If  thou,  the  lord  of  such  a  various  range, 
Hadst  heard  this  new  voice  telling  Arden's 

tale  ! 
For  this  was  no  prim  maiden,  scant  and 

pale, 

Full  of  weak  sentiment,  and  thin  delight 
In  pretty  rhymes,  who  mars  the  resonant 

might 

Of  noble  verse  with  arts  rhetorical 
And  simulated  frenzy  :  not  at  all ! 
This  was  a  peasant  woman ;  large  and 

strong, 

Redhanded,  ignorant,  unused  to  song  — 
Accustom'd  rather  to  the  rudest  prose. 
And  yet,  there  lived  within  her  rustic  clothes 
A  heart  as  true  as  Arden's  ;  and  a  brain, 
Keener  than  his,  that  counts  it  false  and  vain 
To  seem  aught  else  than  simply  what  she  is. 
How  singular,  her  faculty  of  bliss  ! 
Bliss  in  her  servile  work  ;  bliss  deep  and 

full 

In  things  beyond  the  vision  of  the  dull, 
Whate'er  their  rank  :    things  beautiful  as 

these 

Sonorous  lines  and  solemn  harmonies 
Suiting  the  tale  they  tell  of  ;  bliss  in  love  — 
Ah,  chiefly  that !  which  lifts  her  soul  above 
Its  common  life,  and  gives  to  labors  coarse 
Such  fervor  of  imaginative  force 
As  makes  a  passion  of  her  basest  toil. 

Surely  this  servant-dress  was  but  a  foil 
To  her  more  lofty  being  !     As  she  read, 
Her  accent  was  as  pure,  and  all  she  said 
As  full  of  interest  and  of  varied  grace 
As  were  the  changeful  moods,  that  o'er  her 

face 

Pass'd,  like  swift  clouds  across  a  windy  sky, 
At  each  sad  stage  of  Enoch's  history. 
Such  ease,  such  pathos,  such  abandonment 
To  what  she  utter'd,  moulded  as  she  went 
Her  soft  sweet  voice,  and  with  such  self- 
control 
Did  she,  interpreting  the  poet's  soul, 


MUNBY— ISA  CRAIG   KNOX  — EDWIN   ARNOLD 


247 


Bridle  her  own,  that  when  the  tale  was  done 
I  look'd  at  her,  amaz'd  :  she  seem'd  iike  one 
Who  from  some  sphere  of  music  had  come 

down, 
And  donn'd  the  white  cap  and  the  cotton 

gown 


As  if  to  show  how  much  of  skill  and  art 
May  dwell  unthought  of,  in  the  humblest 

heart. 

Yet  there  was  no  great  mystery  to  tell : 
She  felt  it  deeply,  so  she  read  it  well. 


Craig 


THE   WOODRUFFE 


THOU  art  the  flower  of  grief  to  me, 

'T  is  in  thy  flavor  ! 
Thou  keepest  the  scent  of  memory, 

A  sickly  savor. 

In  the  moonlight,  under  the  orchard  tree, 
Thou  wert  pluck'd  and  given  to  me, 

For  a  love  favor. 

In  the  moonlight,  under  the  orchard  tree, 

Ah,  cruel  flower  ! 
Thou  wert  pluck'd  and  given  to  me, 

While  a  fruitless  shower 
Of  blossoms  rain'd  on  the  ground  where  grew 
The  woodruffe  bed  all  wet  with  dew, 

In  the  witching  hour. 

Under  the  orchard  tree  that  night 

Thy  scent  was  sweetness, 
And  thou,  with  thy  small  star  clusters  bright 

Of  pure  completeness, 
Shedding  a  pearly  lustre  bright, 
Seem'd,  as  I  gaz'd  in  the  meek  moonlight, 

A  gift  of  meetuess. 


"  It  keeps  the  scent  for  years,"  said  he, 

(And  thou  hast  kept  it)  ; 
"  And  when  you  scent  it,  think  of  me." 
(He  could  not  mean  thus  bitterly.) 

Ah  !  I  had  swept  it 
Into  the  dust  where  dead  things  rot, 
Had  I  then  believ'd  his  love  was  not 

What  I  have  wept  it. 

Between  the  leaves  of  this  holy  book, 

0  flower  undying  ! 

A  worthless  and  wither'd  weed  in  look, 

1  keep  thee  lying. 

The  bloom  of  my  life  with  thee  was  pluck'd, 
And  a  close-press'd  grief  its  sap  hath  suck'd, 
Its  strength  updrying. 

Thy  circles  of  leaves,  like  pointed  spears, 

My  heart  pierce  often  ; 
They  enter,  it  inly  bleeds,  no  tears 

The  hid  wounds  soften  ; 
Yet  one  will  I  ask  to  bury  thee 
In  the  soft  white  folds  of  my  shroud  with 
me, 

Ere  they  close  my  coffin. 


FROM  "  THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA" 

NIRVANA 

THE  Books  say  well,  my  Brothers !  each 

man's  life 

The  outcome  of  his  former  living  is  ; 
The  bygone  wrongs  bring  forth  sorrows  and 

woes, 
The  bygone  right  breeds  bliss. 

That  which  ye  sow  ye  reap.     See  yonder 

fields  ! 
The  sesamnin  was  sesamum,  the  corn 


Was  corn.    The  Silence  and  the  Darkness 

knew  ! 
So  is  a  man's  fate  born. 

He  cometh,  reaper  of  the  things  he  sow'd, 
Sesamum,  corn,  so   much   cast   in   past 

birth; 
And  so  much  weed  and  poison-stuff,  which 

mar 
Him  and  the  aching  earth. 

If  he  shall  labor  rightly,  rooting  these, 
And  planting  wholesome  seedlings  where 
they  grew. 


248 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Fruitful   and   fair   and   clean   the   ground 

shall  be, 
And  rich  the  harvest  due. 

If  he   who   liveth,   learning   whence   woe 
springs, 

Endureth  patiently,  striving  to  pay 
His  utmost  debt  for  ancient  evils  done 

In  Love  and  Truth  alway  ; 

If  making  none  to  lack,  he  thoroughly  purge 
The  lie  and  lust  of  self  forth  from  his 
blood  ; 

Suffering  all  meekly,  rendering  for  offence 
Nothing  but  grace  and  good  ; 

If  he  shall  day  by  day  dwell  merciful, 
Holy  and  just  and  kind  and  true  ;  and 

rend 
Desire  from  where  it  clings  with  bleeding 

roots, 
Till  love  of  life  have  end  : 

He  —  dying  —  leaveth  as  the  sum  of  him 
A  life-count  clos'd,  whose  ills  are  dead 

and  quit, 
Whose  good  is  quick  and  mighty,  far  and 

near, 
So  that  fruits  follow  it. 

No  need  hath  such  to  live  as  ye  name  life  ; 

That  which  began  in  him  when  he  began 
Is  flnish'd  :  he  hath  wrought  the  purpose 
through 

Of  what  did  make  him  Man. 

Never  shall  yearnings  torture  him,  nor  sins 
Stain  him,  nor  ache  of  earthly  joys  and 
woes 

Invade  his  safe  eternal  peace  ;  nor  deaths 
And  lives  recur.     He  goes 

Unto  NiRvANA.     He  is  one  with  Life 
Yet  lives  not.    He  is  blest,  ceasing  to  be. 

OM,  MANI  PADME,  OM  !  the  Dewdrop  slips 
Into  the  shining  sea  ! 

THE   CALIPH'S    DRAUGHT 

UPON  a  day  in  Ramadan  — 

When  sunset  brought  an  end  of  fast, 
And  in  his  station  every  man 

Prepar'd  to  share  the  glad  repast  — 
Sate  Mohtasim  in  royal  state, 

The  pillaw  smok'd  upon  the  gold  ; 


The  fairest  slave  of  those  that  wait 
Mohtasim's  jewell'd  cup  did  hold. 

Of  crystal  carven  was  the  cup, 

With  turquoise  set  along  the  brim, 
A  lid  of  amber  clos'd  it  up  ; 

'T  was  a  great  king  that  gave  it  him. 
The  slave  pour'd  sherbet  to  the  brink, 

Stirr'd  in  wild  honey  and  pomegranate, 
With    snow   and    rose-leaves   cool'd    the 
drink, 

And  bore  it  where  the  Caliph  sate. 

The  Caliph's  mouth  was  dry  as  bone, 

He  swept  his  beard  aside  to  quaff  : 
The  news-reader  beneath  the  throne 

Went  droning  on  with  ghain  and  kaj. 
The  Caliph  drew  a  mighty  breath, 

Just  then  the  reader  read  a  word  — 
And  Mohtasim,  as  grim  as  death, 

Sec  down  the  cup  and  snatch'd  his  sword. 

"  Ann'  amratan  shureefatee  !  " 

"  Speak  clear  !  "  cries  angry  Mohtasim ; 
"  Fe  lasr  ind'  ilj  min  ulji," — 

Trembling  the  newsman  read  to  him 
How  in  Ammoria,  far  from  home, 

An  Arab  girl  of  noble  race 
Was  captive  to  a  lord  of  Roum  ; 

And  how  he  smote  her  on  the  face, 

And  how  she  cried,  for  life  afraid, 

"  Ya,  Mohtasim  !  help,  O  my  king  !  " 
And  how  the  Kafir  mock'd  the  maid, 

And  laugh'd,  and  spake  a  bitter  thing, 
"  Call  louder,  fool !  Mohtasim's  ears 

Are  long  as  Barak's  —  if  he  heed  — 
Your  prophet's  ass  ;  and  when  he  hears, 

He'll  come  upon  a  spotted  steed  !  " 

The  Caliph's  face  was  stern  and  red, 

He  snapp'd  the  lid  upon  the  cup  ; 
"Keep  this  same  sherbet,  slave,"  he  said, 

"  Till  such  time  as  I  drink  it  up.  • 
Wallah  !  the  stream  my  drink  shall  be, 

My  hallow'd  palm  my  only  bowl, 
Till  I  have  set  that  lady  free, 

And  seen  that  Roumi  dog's  head  roll." 

At  dawn  the  drums  of  war  were  beat, 
Proclaiming,  "  Thus  saith  Mohtasim, 

'  Let  all  my  valiant  horsemen  meet, 
And  every  soldier  bring  with  him 

A  spotted  steed.' "     So  rode  they  forth, 
A  sight  of  marvel  and  of  fear ; 


EDWIN   ARNOLD 


249 


Pied  horses  prancing  fiercely  north, 

Three  lakhs  —  the  cup  borne  in  the  rear  ! 

When  to  Ammoria  he  did  win, 

He  smote  and  drove  the  dogs  of  Roum, 
And  rode  his  spotted  stallion  in, 

Crying,  "  Labbayki  I  I  am  come  I  " 
Then  downward  from  her  prison-place 

Joyful  the  Arab  lady  crept ; 
She  held  her  hair  before  her  face, 

She  kiss'd  his  feet,  she  laugh'd  and  wept. 

She  pointed  where  that  lord  was  laid  : 

They  drew  him  forth,  he  whin'd  for  grace : 
Then  with  fierce  eyes  Mohtasim  said  — 

"  She  whom  thou  smotest  on  the  face 
Had  scorn,  because  she  call'd  her  king  : 

Lo  !  he  is  come  !  and  dost  thou  think 
To  live,  who  didst  this  bitter  thing 

While  Mohtasim  at  peace  did  drink  ?  " 

Flash'd  the  fierce  sword  —  roll'd  the  lord's 
head  ; 

The  wicked  blood  smok'd  in  the  sand. 
"  Now  bring  my  cup  !  "  the  Caliph  said. 

Lightly  he  took  it  in  his  hand,  — 
As  down  his  throat  the  sweet  drink  ran 

Mohtasim  in  his  saddle  laugh'd, 
And  cried,  "  Taiba  asshrab  alan  ! 

By  God  !  delicious  is  this  draught !  " 

AFTER   DEATH    IN   ARABIA 

HE  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  all  his  friends  : 

Faithful  friends  !     It  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow  ; 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdallah  's  dead  ! " 
Weeping  at  the  feet  and  head. 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  sighs  and  prayers  ; 
Yet  I  smile  and  whisper  this,  — 
"  /  am  not  the  thing  you  kiss  ; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie  ; 
It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

Sweet  friends  !     What  the  women  lave 
For  its  last  bed  of  the  grave, 
Is  a  tent  which  I  am  quitting, 
Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 
Like  a  hawk  my  soul  hath  pass'd. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room,  — 
The  wearer,  not  the  garb,  —  the  plume 


Of  the  falcon,  not  the  bars 

Which  kept  him  from  these  splendid  stars, 

Loving  friends  !     Be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye,  — 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'T  is  an  empty  sea-shell,  —  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone  ; 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there  ; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 
'T  is  an  earthen  jar,  whose  lid 
Allah  seal'd,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  his  treasury, 
A  mind  that  lov'd  him  ;  let  it  lie  ! 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more,, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  his  store  I 

Allah  glorious  !    Allah  good  ! 
Now  thy  world  is  understood  ; 
Now  the  long,  long  wonder  ends  ; 
Yet  ye  weep,  my  erring  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  dead, 
In  unspoken  bliss,  instead, 
Lives  and  loves  you  ;  lost,  't  is  true, 
By  such  light  as  shines  for  you  ; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfill'd  felicity,  — 
In  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  a  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends  !     Yet  not  farewell  ? 
Where  I  am,  ye,  too,  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face, 
A  moment's  time,  a  little  space. 
When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepp'd 
Ye  will  wonder  why  ye  wept ; 
Ye  will  know,  by  wise  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain,  — 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  ; 
Only  not  at  death,  —  for  death, 
Now  I  know,  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enteT 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  centre. 

Be  ye  certain  all  seems  love, 
View'd  from  Allah's  throne  above  ; 
Be  ye  stout  of  heart,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home  ! 
La  Allah  ilia  Allah  I  yea  ! 
Thou  love  divine  !     Thou  love  alway  ! 

He  that  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave- 


25° 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


RAGLAN 

AH  !  not  because  our  Soldier  died  before 

his  field  was  won  ; 
Ah  !    not  because  life  would  not  last  till 

life's  long  task  were  done. 
Wreathe   one   less   leaf,  grieve   with  less 

grief,  —  of  all  our  hosts  that  led 
Not  last  in  work  and  worth  approv'd, — 

Lord  Raglan  lieth  dead. 

His  nobleness  he  had  of  none,  War's  Master 

taught  him  war, 
And  prouder  praise  that  Master  gave  than 

meaner  lips  can  mar  ; 
Gone  to  his  grave,  his  duty  done  ;  if  farther 

any  seek, 
He  left  his  life  to  answer  them, —  a  soldier's, 

—  let  it  speak  ! 

'T  was  his  to  sway  a  blunted  sword,  —  to 
fight  a  fated  field, 

While  idle  tongues  talk'd  victory,  to  strug- 
gle not  to  yield  ; 

Light  task  for  placeman's  ready  pen  to  plan 
a  field  for  fight, 

Hard  work  and  hot  with  steel  and  shot  to 
win  that  field  aright. 

Tears  have  been  shed  for  the  brave  dead  ; 

mourn  him  who  mourn'd  for  all ! 
Praise  hath  been  given  for  strife  well  striven ; 

praise  him  who  strove  o'er  all, 
Nor  count  that  conquest  little,  though  no 

banner  flaunt  it  far, 
That  under  him  our  English  hearts  beat 

Pain  and  Plague  and  War. 

And  if  he  held  those  English  hearts  too 

good  to  pave  the  path 
To  idle  victories,  shall   we   grudge  what 

noble  palm  he  hath  ? 
Like  ancient  Chief  he  fought  a-front,  and 

mid  his  soldiers  seen, 
His  work  was  aye  as  stern  as  theirs  ;  oh  ! 

make  his  grave  as  green. 

They  know  him  well,  —  the  Dead  who  died 

that  Russian  wrong  should  cease, 
Where  Fortune  doth  not  measure  men,  — 

their  souls  and  his  have  peace  ; 
Ay !  as  well  spent  in  sad  sick  tent  as  they 

in  bloody  strife, 
For  English  Homes  our  English  Chief  gave 

what  he  had,  —  his  life. 


FROM    "WITH    SA'DI    IN   THE 
GARDEN " 

MAHMUD    AND  AYAZ  :    A  PARAPHRASE 
ON  SA'DI 

THEY  mock'd  the  Sovereign  of  Ghaznin ; 

one  saith, 

"  Ayaz  hath  no  great  beauty,  by  my  faith  I 
A  Rose  that 's  neither  rosy-red  nor  fra* 

grant, 
The  Bulbul's  love  for  such  astouisheth  !  " 

This  went  to  Mahmud's  ears  ;  ill-pleas'd  he 

sate, 

Bow'd  on  himself,  reflecting  ;  then  to  that 
Replied  :    "  My  love   is   for  his  kindly 

nature, 
Not  for  his  stature,  nor  his  face,  nor  state  I  " 

And  I  did  hear  how,  in  a  rocky  dell, 
Bursting  a  chest  of  gems  a  camel  fell  ; 
King  Mahmud  wav'd  his  sleeve,  permit- 
ting plunder, 

But  spurr'd  his  own  steed  onward,  as  they 
tell. 

His  horsemen  parted  from  their  Lord  amain, 
Eager  for  pearls,  and  corals,  and  such  gain  : 

Of  all  those  neck-exalting  courtiers 
None  except  Ayaz  near  him  did  remain. 

The  King  look'd  back  —  "  How  many  hast 

thou  won, 
Curl'd  comfort  of  my  heart  ?  "     He  an- 

swer'd  "  None  ! 

I  gallop'd  up  the  pass  in  rear  of  thee  ; 
I  quit  thee  for  no  pearls  beneath  the  sun  !  " 

Oh,  if  to  God  thou  hast  propinquity, 
For  no  wealth  heedless  of  His  service  be  ! 
If  Lovers  true  of  God  shall  ask  from  God 
Aught  except  God,  that 's  infidelity. 

If  thine  eyes  fix  on  any  gift  of  Friend, 
Thy  gain,  not  his,  is  thy  desire's  end  : 
If  thy  mouth  gape  in  avarice,  Heaven's 

message 
Unto  Heart's  ear  by  that  road  shall  not  wend. 

SONG  WITHOUT  A   SOUND 

THE  Bulbul  wail'd,  «  Oh,  Rose  !  all  night  I 

sing, 
And    Thou,    Beloved !    utterest    not    one 

thing." 


EDWIN   ARNOLD 


251 


"  Dear  Bird  !  "   she  answer' d,  "  scent  and 

blossoming 
Are  music  of  my  Song  without  a  sound." 

The  Cypress  to  the  Tulip  spake  :  "  "What 

bliss 
Seest  thou  in  sunshine,  dancing  still  like 

this  ?  " 
5  My  cup,"  the  Tulip  said,  "  the  wind's  lips 

kiss  ; 
Dancing    I    hear    the    Song   without    a 

sound." 

The  gray  Owl  hooted  to  the  Dove  at  morn, 
"  Why    art    thou    happy    on    thy    jungle- 
thorn  ?  " 
"Hearest    thou    not,"    she    cooed,    "o'er 

Earth's  face  borne 
This  music  of  the  Song  without  a  sound  ?  " 

"  Ah,     Darweesh ! "       moan'd     a     King, 

"  Vainly  I  pray 

For  Allah's  comfort,  kneeling  day  by  day." 
"  Sultan  !  "  quoth  he,  "  be  meek,  and  hear 

alway 
The  music  of  His  Mercy  without  sound." 

"  Poet !  "   a  Queen  sigh'd,  "  why  alone  to 

thee 

Come  visions  of  that  world  we  cannot  see  — 
Not   great  nor  rich  ? "     "I   borrow  min- 
strelsy," 

Smiling  he  said,  "  from  Songs  without  a 
sound." 

Shirin-i-man  !  dear  Lover  !  true  and  sweet, 
Ask  no  more  if  I  love,  nor  kiss  my  feet  ; 
But  hear,  with  cheek  against  my  bosom's 

beat, 
The  music  of  the  Song  without  a  sound  ! 


THE    MUSMEE 

THE  Musmee  has  brown  velvet  eyes 
Curtain'd  with  satin,  sleepily  ; 

You  wonder  if  those  lids  would  rise 
The  newest,  strangest  sight  to  see  ; 

But  when  she  chatters,  laughs,  or  plays 
Koto,  biwa,  or  samisen, 


No  jewel  gleams  with  brighter  rays 

Than  flash  from  those  dark  lashes  then. 

The  Musmee  has  a  small  brown  face, 

"  Musk-melon  seed  "  its  perfect  shape  : 
Jetty  arch'd  eyebrows  ;  nose  to  grace 

The  rosy  mouth  beneath  ;  a  nape, 
And  neck,  and  chin,  and  smooth,  soft  cheeks 

Carv'd  out  of  sun-burn'd  ivory, 
With   teeth,    which,    when   she   smiles   or 
speaks, 

Pearl  merchants  might  come  leagues  to 
see  ! 

The  Musmee's  hair  could  teach  the  night 

How  to  grow  dark,  the  raven's  wing 
How  to  seem  ebon  !     Grand  the  sight 

When,  in  rich  masses,  towering, 
She  builds  each  high  black-marble  coil, 

And  binds  the  gold  and  scarlet  in  ; 
And  thrusts,  triumphant,  through  the  toil 

The  Kanzashi,  her  jewell'd  pin. 

The  Musmee  has  wee,  faultless  feet, 

With  snow-white  tdbi  trimly  deck'd, 
Which  patter  down  the  city  street 

In  short  steps,  slow  and  circumspect ; 
A  velvet  string  between  her  toes 

Holds  to  its  place  th'  unwilling  shoe  : 
Pretty  and  pigeon-like  she  goes, 

And  on  her  head  a  hood  of  blue. 

The  Musmee  wears  a  wondrous  dress  — 

Kimono,  obi,  imoji  — 
A  rose-bush  in  Spring  loveliness 

Is  not  more  color-glad  to  see  ! 
Her  girdle  holds  her  silver  pipe, 

And  heavy  swing  her  long  silk  sleeves 
With  cakes,  love-letters,  mikan  ripe, 

Small  change,   musk-bag,  and  writing* 
leaves. 

The  Musmee's  heart  is  slow  to  grief, 

And  quick  to  pleasure,  dance,  and  song  ; 
The  Musmee's  pocket-handkerchief 

A  square  of  paper  !     All  day  long 
Gentle,  and  sweet,  and  debonair 

Is,  rich  or  poor,  this  Asian  lass  : 
Heaven  have  her  in  its  tender  care, 

0  medeto  gozarimas  I l 


1  Japanese  for  "  May  it  be  well  with  thee  1" 


252 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


VERSAILLES 

(1784) 

IN  Carnival  we  were,  and  supp'd  that  night 
In  a  long  room  that  overlooked  the  Square, 
When  that  strange  matter  happ'd  of  which 

you  ask. 

We  rang  all  pleasure's  carillon  that  week  ; 
Feasts  and  rich  shows,  and  hunting  in  the 

woods, 

Light  love  that  liv'd  on  change,  deep  drink- 
ing, mirth 

As  mad  as  Nero's  on  the  Palatine  ; 
The  women  were  as  wild  as  we,  and,  like 
The    King's,    our    money   flew    about    in 

showers. 
They  said,  "  The  people  starv'd  "  ;  it  could 

not  be  ; 

We  spent  a  million  on  the  Carnival. 
And  now  for  fifty  years  gone  by  I  have 

heard 
"  The  people  starve  "  —  Why  then  do  the 

useless  beasts 
Gender  so  fast  ?    Less  mouths,  more  bread  ! 

For  me, 

I  do  not  care  whether  they  live  or  die,  — 
Canaille  the  dunghill  breeds,  —  but  Drum- 

mond  car'd, 
The  young  Scotch  musketeer  whose  waking 

dream 

You  wish  to  hear  from  me,  who  only  live 
Of  all  our  joyous  company.     I  am  old, 
My  life  burns  like  the  thinnest  flame,  but 

then 

It  was  a  glorious  fire,  and  on  that  night 
I  led  the  feast,  and  roof  and  table  rang 
With  revelry  :  till  at  the  height  of  noise 
A  sudden  silence  fell,  and  while  we  smil'd, 
Waiting   for  whom   should   break   it,  the 

great  clock 
Struck  three  in  the  still  air  —  and  a  hush'd 

sound 
Like  coming  wind   pass'd  by,    and  in  its 

breath 

I  thought  I  heard,  far  oft,  a  wail  and  roar 
As  if  a  city  perish 'd  at  one  stroke  ; 
The  rest  heard  not,  but  Drummond  starting 

up 
And  muttering  —  "  Death,  Death  and  his 

troops  are  nigh,"  — 
Strode   to   the   window.      Half   asleep   he 

seem'd, 


Pale  as  that  madman  Damiens  on  the  day 
He  met  the  torture  —  and  across  the  bar 
He  lean'd,  and  saw  the  white  square  in  the 

moon. 
Men  mock'd,  and  let  him  be  —  they  knew 

his  mood  ; 

One  of  his  Highland  trances,  so  they  said  ; 
But  I  kept  watch  —  the  grim  gray  North 

in  him, 
Midst  of  our  Gallic  lightness,  pleas'd  me 

well. 
I  watch'd  and  mark'd  above  his  head  the 

moon, 
That   shone  like  pearl   amid   the  western 

heaven, 

Suddenly  swallow'd  up  by  a  vast  cloud, 
With  edges  like  red  lightning,  but  the  rest 
Of  the  sky  and  stars  was  clear,  and  the 

rushing  noise 

Now  louder  swell'd,  like  cataracts  of  rain. 
And  then  I  saw  how  Drummond  toss'd  his 

arms 
High  o'er  his  head,  and,  crying  "  Horror, 

horror," 
Fell  like  a  stabb'd  man   prone   upon   the 

floor. 
We  laid  him  on  a  couch  and  cried,  "  Speak 

—  speak, 
What  is  it,. what  have  you  seen  ?  " 

"  I  have  seen  Death,"  he  said, 
"  And  Doom,"  —  and  truly  with  his  matted 

hair, 

And  eyes  which  as  he  rose  upon  his  hands 
Seem'd  'neath  their  cavern'd  arches  coals  of 

fire, 
He  look'd  like  a  gaunt,  shaggy  mountain 

wolf 
Caught  in  a  pit,  and  mad  with  rage  and 

fear. 
"  You  heard,"  he  said,  "  that  sighing  rush 

of  wind 

And  then  the  awful  cry,  far  off,  as  if 
The  world  had  groan'd  and  died  —  I  heard, 

and  trance 

Fell  on  my  brain,  and  in  the  trance  I  saw 
The  square  below  me  in  the  moonlight  fill 
With  nobles,  dames,  and  maidens,  pages,  all 
The  mighty  names  of  France,  and  midst 

them  walk'd 
The  King  and  Queen,  not  ours,  but  those 

that  come 
Hereafter,  and  I  heard  soft  speech  of  love 


STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS   BROOKE 


253 


And    laughter    please    the    night  —  when 

momently 
The  moon  went  out,  and  from  the  darkness 

stream'd 

A  hissing  flood  of  rain  that  where  it  fell 
Changed  into  blood,  and  'twixt  the  court- 
yard stones 
Blood  well'd    as  water  from   a  mountain 

moss  ; 
And  the  gay  crowd,  unwitting,  walk'd  in 

it  : 

Bubbling  it  rose  past  ankle,  knee,  and  waist, 
*       From  waist  to  throat ;  and  still  they  walk'd 

as  if 

They  knew  it  not,  until  a  fierce  wind  lash'd 
The  crimson  sea,  and  beat  it  into  waves, 
And  when  its  waves  smote  on  their  faces, 

then 
They  knew  and  shriek'd,  but  all  in  vain  ; 

the  blood, 
Storming  upon  them,  whelm'd  and  drown'd 

them  all  ; 

At  which  a  blinding  lightning  like  a  knife 
Gash'd   the   cloud's    breast,   and   dooming 

thunder  peal'd. 
I   woke,   and    crying   '  Horror '    knew   no 

more. 
I  've  seen  the  fates  of  France  ;  the  day  of 

God 
And  vengeance  is  at  hand  ;   take  heed  — 

repent  — 
Leave  me  to  rest." 

We  laugh 'd  to  hear  him  preach, 
And  left  him  on  the  couch,  where  like  a 

man 
Drunken  he   slept,  but  when  he  rose,  his 

hue 
Was  changed,  a  cloud  was  on  his  eyes,  his 

mouth 
Was  stern.     He  sang,  he  ruffled,  lov'd  no 

more, 

Provok'd  no  man,  and  went  about  like  one 
Who  —  can  you  think  it  ?  —  thought  there 

was  a  God 
vVho,  midst  his  court,  car'd  how  his  people 

liv'd. 
We  all  were  doom'd,  he  said,  and  France 

was  doom'd, 
He  would  not  stay  !     And  so  gave  up  his 

sword, 
And  went  to  Scotland,  where  in  some  grim 

tower 

He  lov'd  and  married  —  fool !  —  a   name- 
less girl, 
And  made  the  peasants  happy,  I  am  told  ; 


But   we   liv'd   out   our   life,   and   met   no 

doom  ; 
And  now  I  am  old,  and  Louis,  my  good 

friend 
The  Well-belov'd,  is  dead  long  since,  and 

soon 
My  time  will  come  !  —  The  people  starve, 

they  say, 
And  curse.    I  know  they  curse  and  hate  us  ! 

Well, 
We  will  ride  down  and  slay  the  mutinous 

dogs  ; 

Why,  yesterday  my  horses  in  the  crowd 
Threw  down  a  mother  and  a   child,  and 

splash'd 
A  hideous  dwarf,  who  shook  his  fist  and 

curs'd  ; 
I  laugh'd,  but  as  he  curs'd  with   skill,  I 

ask  d 
The  ruffian's  name  —  "  Marat,"  they  said, 

"  a  leech, 

Who  physics  horses  and  the  common  herd, 
Brute  healing  brute  —  the  people's  friend, 

and  yet 
He  takes  our  wages  —  writes  us  down,  but 

keeps 
A  place  in  d'Artois'  stable  ! "     These  are 

the  scum 
That  Drummond  fear'd  —  Artois  shall  flog 

the  man. 

THE   JUNGFRAU'S    CRY 

I,  VIRGIN  of  the  Snows,  have  liv'd 

Uncounted  years  apart  ; 
Mated  with  Sunlight,  Stars  and  Heaven, 

But  I  am  cold  at  heart. 

High  mates  !     Ye  teach  me  purity, 
And  lonely  thought  and  truth  ; 

But  I  have  never  liv'd,  and  yet 
I  have  eternal  youth. 

Blow,  tropic  winds,  and  warm  rains,  fall, 

And  melt  my  snowy  crest  ; 
Let  soft  woods  clothe  my  shoulders  fair, 

Deep  grass  lie  on  my  breast. 

And  let  me  feed  a  thousand  herds, 

And  hear  the  tinkling  bells, 
Till  the  brown  chalets  cluster  close 

In  all  my  stream-fed  dells. 

So  may  I  hear  the  sweep  of  scythes. 
And  beating  of  the  flails, 


254 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


My  maidens  singing  as  they  spin, 
And  the  voice  of  nightingales. 

And  little  children  in  their  joy, 
And,  where  my  violets  hide, 

Soft  interchange  of  lovers'  vows, 
Sweet  hymns  at  eventide. 

Alas  !  cold  Sunlight,  Stars  and  Heaven, 

My  high  companions,  call. 
The  ice-clad  life  is  pure  and  stern  : 

I  am  weary  of  it  all. 

SONGS  FROM  "RIQUET  OF  THE 
TUFT" 

QUEEN'S  SONG 

YOUNG  Sir  Guyon  proudly  said, 
"  Love  shall  never  be  my  fate." 
"  None  can  say  so  but  the  dead," 
Shriek'd  the  witch  wife  at  his  gate. 

"  Go  and  dare  my  shadow'd  dell, 
Love  will  quell  your  happy  mood." 
Guyon,  laughing  his  farewell, 
Rode  into  the  faery  wood. 

There  he  met  a  maiden  wild, 
By  a  tree  she  stood  alone  ; 
When  she  look'd  at  him  and  smil'd, 
At  a  breath  his  heart  was  gone. 


In  her  arms  she  twiu'd  him  fast, 
And,  like  wax  within  the  flame, 
Melted  memory  of  the  past, 
Soul  and  body,  name  and  fame. 

Late  at  night  the  steed  came  back, 

"  Where  's  our  good  knight  ?  "  cried  hie 

men  ; 

Far  and  near  they  sought  his  track. 
But  Guyon  no  one  saw  again. 

PRINCE  RIQUET'S  SONG 

O  LONG  ago,  when  Faery-land 
Arose  new  born,  King  Oberon 
Walk'd  pensive  on  the  yellow  strand, 
And  wearied,  for  he  liv'd  alone. 

"  Why  have  I  none,  he  said,  to  love  ?  " 
When  soft  a  wind  began  to  fleet 
Across  the  moonlit  sea,  and  drove 
A  lonely  shallop  to  his  feet. 

Of  pearl,  and  rubies  red,  and  gold, 
That  shell  was  made,  and  in  it  lay 
Titania  fast  asleep,  and  roll'd 
In  roses,  and  in  flowers  of  May. 

He  wak'd  her  with  a  loving  kiss, 
Her  arms  around  him  softly  clung  ; 
And  none  can  ever  tell  the  bliss 
These  had  when  Faery-land  was  young. 


MARE    MEDITERRANEUM 

A  LINE  of  light  !  it  is  the  inland  sea, 
The  least  in  compass  and   the   first   in 

fame  ; 

The  gleaming  of  its  waves  recalls  to  me 
Full  many  an  ancient  name. 

As  through  my  dreamland  float  the  days  of 

old, 
The  forms  and  features  of  their  heroes 

shine  : 

I  see  Phoenician  sailors  bearing  gold 
From  the  Tartessian  mine. 

Seeking  new  worlds,  storm-toss'd  Ulysses 

ploughs 
Remoter  surges  of  the  winding  main  ; 


And  Grecian  captains  come  to  pay  their 

vows, 
Or  gather  up  the  slain. 

I  see  the  temples  of  the  Violet  Crown 
Burn   upward   in   the  hour  of   glorious 

flight  ; 

And  mariners  of  uueclips'd  renown, 
Who  won  the  great  sea  fight. 

I  hear  the  dashing  of  a  thousand  oars, 

The  angry  waters  take  a  deeper  dye  ; 
A  thousand  echoes  vibrate  from  the  shores 
With  Athens'  battle-cry. 

Again  the  Carthaginian  rovers  sweep, 
With  sword  and  commerce,  on  from  shore 
to  shore  ; 


JOHN   NICHOL 


255 


In  visionary  storms  the  breakers  leap 
Round  Syrtes,  as  of  yore. 

Victory,  sitting  on  the  Seven  Hills, 

Had  gain'd  the  world  when  she  had  mas- 

ter'd  thee  ; 
Thy    bosom    with    the    Roman    war -note 

thrills, 
Wave  of  the  inland  sea. 

Then,  singing  as  they  sail  in  shining  ships, 
I  see  the  monarch  minstrels  of  Romance, 
And  hear  their  praises  murmur'd  through 

the  lips 
Of  the  fair  dames  of  France. 

Across  the  deep  another  music  swells, 

On  Adrian  bays  a  later  splendor  smiles  ; 
Power   hails   the   marble   city   where    she 

dwells 
Queen  of  a  hundred  isles. 

Westward  the  galleys  of  the  Crescent  roam, 
And  meet  the  Pisan  ;   challenge  on  the 

breeze, 

Till  the  long  Dorian  palace  lords  the  foam 
With  stalwart  Genoese. 

But    the    light    fades  ;    the    vision    wears 

away  ; 

I  see  the  mist  above  the  dreary  wave. 
Blow,  winds  of  Freedom,  give  another  day 
Of  glory  to  the  brave  ! 

H.  W.  L. 

THE  roar  of  Niagara  dies  away, 

The  fever  heats  of  war  and  traffic  fade, 

While  the  soft  twilight  melts  the  glare  of 

day 
In  this  new  Helicon,  the  Muses'  glade. 

The     roof     that     shelter'd    Washington's 

retreat, 

Thy  home  of  homes,  America,  I  find 
In  this  memorial  mansion,  where  we  greet 
The   full-ton'd   lyrist,    with   the    gentle 
mind. 

Here    have    thy   chosen    spirits    met   and 

flower'd, 

Season  on  season,  'neath  magnetic  spells 
Of  him  who,  in  his  refuge,  rose-embower'd, 
Remote  from  touch  of  envious  passion 
dwells. 


Here   Concord's   sage  and  Harvard's  wit 

contend  : 

The  wise,  the  true,  the  learned  of  the  land, 
Grave    thoughts,    gay    fantasies    together 

blend 

In  subtle  converse,  'neath  his  fostering1 
hand. 

With  other  forms   than   those   of   mortal 

guest 
The  house   is   haunted ;   visions   of  the 

morn, 

Voices  of  night  that  soothe  the  soul  to  rest, 
Attend  the  shapes,  by  aery  wand  reborn  ; 

Serene  companions  of  a  vanish'd  age, 
Noiseless   they  tread  the  once  familiar 

floors  ; 

Or,  later  offspring  of  the  poet's  page, 
They  throng  the   threshold,  crowd   the 
corridors. 

"  Sweet  Preciosa  "  beside  the  listening  stair 
Flutters  expectant  while  Victorian  sings  ; 

Evangeline,  with  cloistral  eyes  of  prayer, 
Folds  her  white  hands,  in  shade  of  angels' 


Conquistadors  of  Castile  pace  the  hall ; 
Or  red-skinu'd  warriors  pass  the  challenge 

round  ; 
Or  Minnehaha's  laughter,  as  the  fall 

Of    woodland    waters,    makes    a    silver 
sound. 

Thor  rolls  the  thunders  of  his  fiery  vaunt, 
The   answering   battle   burns   in   Olaf's 

eyes  ; 
Or  love-crown'd  Elsie  lures   us  with   the 

chaunt 

That  lull'd  the  waves,  'neath  star-hung 
Genoan  skies. 

Here  grim-faced  captains  of  colonial  days 
Salute  the  builders  of  old  German  rhyme  j 

And  choral  troops  of  children  hymn  the 

praise 
Of  their  own  master  minstrel  of  all  time. 

Fair  shrine  of  pure  creations  !  linger  long 
His    bright    example,     may    his    fame 

increase  : 

Discord  nor  distance  ever  dim  his  song, 
Whose    ways    are    pleasantness,    whose 
paths  are  peace. 


256 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Nor  Hawthorne's  manse,  wi'tb  ancient  moss 

bespread, 
Nor  Irving's  hollow,  is  with  rest  so  rife 


As  this  calm  haven,  where  the  leaves  are 

shed 
Round  Indian  summers  of  a  golden  life. 


te,  <£ati  of 


BEDTIME 

*Tis   bedtime  ;  say  your  hymn,   and  bid 

"  Good-night  ; 
God  bless  Mamma,  Papa,  and  dear  ones 

all." 
Your  half-shut  eyes  beneath  your  eyelids 

fall, 

Another  minute,  you  will  shut  them  quite. 
Yes,  I  will  carry  you,  put  out  the  light, 
And   tuck   you   up,  although  you   are   so 

tall! 
What  will  you  give   me,  sleepy  one,  and 

call 

My  wages,  if  I  settle  you  all  right  ? 
I  laid  her  golden  curls  upon  my  arm, 
I  drew  her  little  feet  within  my  hand, 
Her  rosy  palms  were  joined  in  trustful  bliss, 
Her  heart  next  mine  beat  gently,  soft  and 

warm 

She  nestled  to  me,  and,  by  Love's  command, 
Paid   me    my    precious   wages — "Baby's 

Kiss." 


MEMORY 


I  STILL  keep  open  Memory's  chamber  :  still 
Drink  from  the  fount  of  Youth's  perennial 

stream. 

It  may  be  in  old  age  an  idle  dream 
Of  those  dear  children  ;  but  beyond  my  will 
They  come  again,  and  dead  affections  thrill 
My  pulseless  heart,  for  now  once  more  they 

seem 

To  be  alive,  and  wayward  fancies  teem 
In  my  fond  brain,  and  all  my  senses  fill. 
Come,  Alice,  leave  your  books  ;  'tis  I  who 

call  ; 
Bind  up  your  hair,  and  teasing  —  did  you 

say 
Kissing  —  that  kitten  ?     Evey,  come  with 

me  ; 
Mary,  grave  darling,  take  my  hand  :  yes, 

all  ! 

I  have  three  hands  to-day  !     A  Holiday. 
A  Holiday,  Papa  ?    Woe  's  me  !  't  is  Mem- 

ory ! 


AT   LAST 

LET  me  at  last  be  laid 
On  that  hillside  I  know  which  scans  the  vale, 
Beneath  the  thick  yews'  shade, 
For  shelter  when  the  rains  and  winds  pre- 
vail. 

It  cannot  be  the  eye 
Is  blinded  when  we  die, 
So  that  we  know  no  more  at  all 
The  dawns  increase,  the  evenings  fall  ; 
Shut  up  within  a  mouldering  chest  of  wood 
Asleep,  arid  careless  of  our  children's  good. 

Shall  I  not  feel  the  spring, 
The  yearly  resurrection  of  the  earth, 
Stir  thro'  each  sleeping  thing 
With  the    fair  throbbings   and  alarms  of 
birth, 


Calling  at  its  own  hour 
On  folded  leaf  and  flower, 
Calling  the  lamb,  the  lark,  the  bee, 
Calling  the  crocus  and  anemone, 
Calling  new  lustre  to  the  maiden's  eye, 
And  to  the  youth  love  and  ambition  high  ? 

Shall  I  no  more  admire 

The  winding  river  kiss  the  daisied  plain  ? 

Nor  see  the  dawn's  cold  fire 

Steal  downward  from  the  rosy  hills  again  ? 

Nor  watch  the  frowning  cloud, 

Sublime  with  mutteriugs  loud, 

Burst  on  the  vale,  nor  eves  of  gold, 

Nor  crescent  moons,  nor  starlights  cold, 

Nor  the   red   casements   slimmer  on    the 

hill 
At   Yule-tides,  when  the  frozen  leas   are 

still  ? 


LEWIS   MORRIS 


257 


Or  should  my  children's  tread 

Through  Sabbath  twilights,  wheii  the  hymns 
are  done, 

Come  softly  overhead, 

Shall  no  sweet  quickening  through  my 
bosom  run, 

Till  all  my  soul  exale 

Into  the  primrose  pale, 

And  every  flower  which  springs  above 

Breathes  a  new  perfume  from  iny  love  ; 

And  I  shall  throb,  and  stir,  and  thrill  be- 
neath 

With  a  pure  passion  stronger  far  than 
death  ? 

Sweet  thought !  fair,  gracious  dream, 
Too  fair  and  fleeting  for  our  clearer  view  ! 
How  should  our  reason  deem 
That  those  dear  souls,  who  sleep  beneath 

the  blue 

In  rayless  caverns  dim, 
'Mid  ocean  monsters  grim, 
Or  whitening  on  the  trackless  sand, 
Or  with  strange  corpses  on  each  hand 
In  battle-trench  or  city  graveyard  lie, 
Break  not  their  prison-bonds  till  time  shall 

die? 

Nay,  't  is  not  so  indeed  : 

With  the  last  fluttering  of  the  falling  breath 

The  clay -cold  form  doth  breed 

A  viewless  essence,  far  too  fine  for  death  ; 

And,  ere  one  voice  can  mourn, 

On  upward  pinions  borne, 

They  are  hidden,  they  are  hidden,  in  some 

thin  air, 

Far  from  corruption,  far  from  care, 
Where     through   a    veil   they   view   their 

former  scene, 
Only  a  little  touch'd  by  what  has  been. 

Touch'd  but  a  little  ;  and  yet, 
Conscious  of  every  change  that  doth  befall, 
By  constant  change  beset, 
The  creatures  of  this  tiny  whirling  ball, 
Fill'd  with  a  higher  being, 
Dower'd  with  a  clearer  seeing, 
Risen  to  a  vaster  scheme  of  life, 
To  wider  joys  and  nobler  strife, 
Viewing  our  little  human  hopes  and  fears 
As   we   our  children's  fleeting  smiles  and 
tears. 

Then,  whether  with  fire  they  burn 

This  dwelling-house  of  mine  when  I  am  fled, 


And  in  a  marble  urn 

My  ashes  rest  by  my  beloved  dead, 

Or  in  the  sweet  cold  earth 

I  pass  from  death  to  birth, 

And  pay  kind  Nature's  life-long  debt 

In  heart's-ease  and  in  violet  — 

In  charnel-yard  or  hidden  ocean  wave, 

Where'er  I  lie,  I  shall  not  scorn  my  grave. 


SONG 

LOVE  took  my  life  and  thrill'd  it 

Through  all  its  strings, 
Play'd  round  my  mind  and  fill'd  it 

With  sound  of  wings, 
But  to  my  heart  he  never  came 
To  touch  it  with  his  golden  flame. 

Therefore  it  is  that  singing 

I  do  rejoice, 
Nor  heed  the  slow  years  bringing 

A  harsher  voice, 

Because  the  songs  which  he  has  sung 
Still  leave  the  uiitouch'd  singer  young. 

But  whom  in  fuller  fashion 

The  Master  sways, 
For  him,  swift  wing'd  with  passion, 

Fleet  the  brief  days. 
Betimes  the  enforced  accents  come, 
And  leave  him  ever  after  dumb. 


ON   A   THRUSH    SINGING    IN 
AUTUMN 

SWEET  singer  of  the  Spring,  when  the  new 

world 
Was   fill'd  with  song  and  bloom,  and  the 

fresh  year 
Tripp'd,  like  a   lamb  playful  and  void  of 

fear, 
Through  daisied   grass  and  young   leaves 

scarce  unfurl'd, 
Where  is  thy  liquid  voice 
That  all  day  would  rejoice  ? 
Where  now  thy  sweet  and  homely  call, 
Which  from  gray  dawn  to  evening's  chill- 
ing fall 
Would  echo  from  thin  copse  and  tassell'd 

brake, 
For   homely   duty   tun'd   and  love's  sweet 

sake  ? 


258 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC    SCHOOL 


The  spring-tide  pass'd,  high  summer  soon 
should  come. 

The  woods  grew  thick,  the  meads  a  deeper 
hue  ; 

The  pipy  summer  growths  swell'd,  lush  and 
tall; 

The  sharp  scythes  swept  at  daybreak 
through  the  dew. 

Thou  didst  not  heed  at  all, 

Thy  prodigal  voice  grew  dumb  ; 

No  more  with  song  mightst  thou  beguile, 

She  sitting  on  her  speckled  eggs  the  while, 

Thy  mate's  long  vigil  as  the  slow  days  went, 

Solacing  her  with  lays  of  measureless  con- 
tent. 

Nay,  nay,  thy  voice  was  Duty's,  nor  would 

dare 
Siug  were  Love  fled,  though  still  the  world 

were  fair  ; 
The  summer  wax'd  and  wan'd,  the  nights 

grew  cold, 

The  sheep  were  thick  within  the  wattled  fold, 
The  woods  began  to  moan, 
Dumb  wert  thou  and  alone  ; 
Yet  now,  when  leaves  are  sere,  thy  ancient 

note 
Comes  low  and  halting  from  thy  doubtful 

throat. 


Oh,  lonely  loveless  voice,  what  dost  thou 

here 
In  the  deep  silence  of  the  fading  year  ? 

Thus  do  I  read  answer  of  thy  song  : 

"  I  sang  when  winds  blew  chilly  all  day 

long; 

I  sang  because  hope  came  and  joy  was  near, 
I  sang  a  little  while,  I  made  good  cheer ; 
In  summer's  cloudless  day 
My  music  died  away  ; 
But  now  the  hope  and  glory  of  the  year 
Are  dead  and  gone,  a  little  while  I  sing 
Songs  of  regret  for  days  no  longer  here, 
And  touch'd  with  presage   of   the   far-off 

Spring." 

Is  this  the  meaning  of  thy  note,  fair  bird  ? 
Or  do  we  read  into  thy  simple  brain 
Echoes   of   thoughts  which   human  hearts 

have  stirr'd, 

High-soaring  joy  and  melancholy  pain  ? 
Nay,  nay,  that  lingering  note 
Belated  from  thy  throat  — 
"  Regret,"  is  what  it  sings,  "  regret,  regret  ! 
The  dear  days  pass,  but   are  not  wholly 

gone. 

In  praise  of  those  I  let  my  song  go  on  ; 
'T  is  sweeter  to  remember  than  forget." 


THE  SANYASSI 

"  I  HAVE  subdued  at  last  the  will  to  live, 
Expelling  nature  from  my  weary  heart  ; 

And  now  my  life,  so  calm,  contemplative, 
No  longer  selfish,  freely  may  depart. 

The  vital  flame  is  burning  less  and  less  ; 

And  memory  fuses  to  forgetfulness. 

"  Sometimes  I  gaze  on  vacancy  so  long 
That  all  my  brain  grows  vacant,  and  I 

feel 
That  wondrous  influence  which  doth  make 

me  strong 

In  resolution  and  unworldly  zeal, 
Until,  abstracted  from  all  time  and  sense, 
I  sink  into  eternal  indolence. 

"  And  now  I  feel  my  inward  life  grow  still, 

A  beivig  by  it&elf,  which  fondly  clings 
To  consciousness  which  I  can  never  kill, 


Yet  is    abstracted    from    all    outward 

things, 

And  slumbers  often,  and  is  overgrown  ; 
The  sense  of  self  increases  when  alone. 

"I  have  subdued  the  will,  but  gain'd  the 

power 

To  dwell  among  the  denizens  of  earth  ; 
I  spread  my  spirit  over  tree  and  flower, 
And  human  hearts,  and  things  of  meaner 

birth  ; 

And  thinking  thus  to  give  my  soul  away, 
I  found  it  grew  more  conscious  every  day. 

"  The  simple  crowds  who  hourly  pass  me  by, 
I  think  have  lately  grown  afraid  of  me  ; 

There  is  some  virtue  in  this  sunken  eye, 
For  sometimes  in  my  dreams  I  faintly 
see 

The  workings  of  the  spirit  in  the  brain, 

And  living  floods  that  gush  in  every  vein. 


HAMERTON  —  NOEL 


259 


"  Now,  as  I  am  weary  of  this  vain  endeavor 

To  lift  my  spirit  to  eternal  sleep  ; 
I  seek  the  marble  stairs,  the  sacred  river, 
The  liquid  graves  below,  where,  calm  and 

deep, 
Beneath  where    that  bright,  silent    water 

flows, 
Stretch  wide  the  regions  of  divine  repose." 

With  thoughts  like  these  the  Indian  suicide 
Dragg'd  forth  his  stiffen'd  limbs  from 

his  old  lair  ; 

He  had  no  garment  on  his  shrivell'd  hide, 
He  shunn'd  the  grove,  and  sought  the 

solar  glare, 

He  never  look'd  aside,  and  his  dead  march 
Had  for  its  goal  a  gate  of  one  proud  arch. 

It  rose  in  sculptur'd  splendor  on  the  view 
From   the   surrounding  foliage  of   dark 

green, 

Whose  masses  of  broad  shadow  did  subdue 
Its  prominent  light.    The  blue  sky  shone 

between. 

A  crowd  was  on  the  river's  sacred  marge, 
And  on  the  Ganges  many  a  gaudy  barge. 

Down  to  that  river  he  descended  now  ; 

And  as  he  press'd  the  last  steps  of  the  stair, 
A  glance  of  pleasure  from  beneath  his  brow 

Fell  on  two  jars  of  porous  earthenware. 
He  seiz'd  them  with  his  feeble  hands,  and 

tied 
One  of  them  to  his  girdle  on  each  side, 

And  floated  slowly  from  the  crowded  Ghaut ; 
And  since  no  friendly  hand  was  stretch'd 

to  save, 
Found    in    those     quiet   waters   what    he 

sought  — 
A  long  rest  and  an  honorable  grave. 


His   faith  was  righteous,  and   his  ending 

blest  ; 
And  now  his  soul  enjoys  eternal  rest. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN 

"  WILD  huntsmen  ?  "  — '  T  was  a  flight  of 
swans, 

But  so  invisibly  they  flew, 
That  in  his  mind  the  pallid  hina 

Could  hear  a  bugle  horn. 
Faintly  sounds  the  airy  note, 
And  the  deepest  bay  from  the  staghound's 

throat 
Like  the  yelp  of  a  cur  on  the  air  doth  float  ; 

And  hardly  heard  is  the  wild  halloo 

On  the  straggling  night-breeze  borne  ! 

They  fly  on  the  blast  of  the  forest 

That  whistles  round  the  wither'd  tree, 
But  where  they  go  we  may  not  know, 

Nor  see  them  as  they  fly. 
With  hound  and  horn  they  ride  away 
In  the  dreary  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
That  hovers  near  the  dying  day; 

And  the  peasant  hears  but  cannot  see 

Those  huntsmen  pass  him  by. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  goblin  of  the  wood, 

Rushing  down  the  dark  hill-side  ; 
With  steeds  that  neigh  and   hounds  that 
bay, 

All  viewless  sweeps  the  throng. 
And  heavily  where  the  fallow-deer  feeds 
Clatter  the  hoofs  of  their  hunting  steeds, 
Like   the  mountain   gale   on  the    valley's 
meads  ; 

Till  far  away  the  spectres  ride, 

In  distant  lands  along. 


THE    SECRET    OF    THE    NIGHT- 
INGALE 

THE  ground  I  walk'd  on  felt  like  air, 
Air  buoyant  with  the  year's  young  mirth  ; 
Far,  filmy,  undulating  fair, 
The  down  lay,  a  long  wave  of  earth  ; 
And  a  still  green  foam  of  woods  rose  high 
Over  the  hill-line  into  the  sky. 


i   In  meadowy  pasture  browse  the  kine, 

i   Thin  wheat-blades  color  a  brown  plough- 

line  ; 

Fresh  rapture  of  the  year's  young  joy 
Was  in  the  unfolded  luminous  leaf. 
And  birds  that  shower  as  they  toy 
Melodious  rain  that  knows  not  grief, 
A  song-maze  where  my  heart  in  bliss 
Lay  folded,  like  a  chrysalis. 


260 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


They  allured  my  feet  far  into  the  wood, 
Down  a  winding  glade  with  leaflets  wali'd, 
With  an  odorous  dewy  dark  imbued  ; 
Rose,  and  maple,  and  hazel  call'd 
Me  into  the  shadowy  solitude  ; 
Wild  blue  germander  eyes  enthrall'd 
Made  me  free  of  the  balmy  bowers, 
Where  a  wonderful  garden-party  of  flow- 
ers, 

Laughing  sisterhood  under  the  trees, 
Dancing  merrily,  play'd  with  the  bees  ; 
Anemone,  starwort,  bands  in  white, 
Like  girls  for  a  first  communion  dight, 
And  pale  yellow  primrose  ere  her  flight, 
Usher'd  me  onward  wondering 
To  a  scene  more  fair  than  the  court  of  a 

king. 

Ah  !  they  were  very  fair  themselves, 
Sweet  maids  of  honor,  woodland  elves  ! 
Frail  flowers  that  arrive  with  the  cuckoo, 
Pale  lilac,  hyacinth  purple  of  hue, 
And  the  little  pink  geranium, 
All  smil'd  and  nodded  to  see  me  come  ; 
All  gave  me  welcome;  "No  noise,"  they 

said, 

"For  we  will  show  you  the  bridal  bed, 
Where  Philomel,  our  queen,  was  wed  ; 
Hush  !  move  with  a  tender,  reverent  foot, 
Like  a  shy  light  over  bole  and  root ;  " 
And  they  blew  in  the  delicate  air  for  flute. 

Into  the  heart  of  the  verdure  stole 
My  feet,  and  a  music  enwound  my  soul ; 
Zephyr  flew  over  a  cool  bare  brow  — 
I  am  near,  very  near  to  the  secret  now  ! 
For  the  rose-covers,  all  alive  with  song, 
Flash  with  it,  plain  now  low  and  long  ; 
Sprinkle  a  holy  water  of  notes  ; 
On  clear  air  melody  leans  and  floats  ; 
The  blithe-wing'd  minstrel  merrily  moves, 
Dim  bushes  burn  with  mystical  loves  ! 

Lo  !  I  arrive  !  immers'd  in  green, 
Where   the    wood   divides,  though   barely 

seen, 

A  nest  in  one  of  the  blue  leaf-rifts  ! 
There  over  the  border  a  bird  uplifts 
Her  downy  head,  bill'd,  luminous-ey'd  ; 
Behold  the  chosen  one,  the  bride  ! 
And  the  singer,  he  singeth  by  her  side. 
Leap,  heart  !  be  aflame  with  them  !  loud, 

not  dumb, 

Give  a  voice  to  their  epithalamium  ! 
Whose  raptures  wax  not  pale  nor  dim 
Beside  the  fires  of  seraphim. 


These  are  glorious,  glowing  stairs, 
In  gradual  ascent  to  theirs  ; 
With  human  loves  acclaim  and  hail 
The  holy  lore  of  the  nightingale  ! 


SEA   SLUMBER-SONG 

SEA-BIRDS  are  asleep, 
The  world  forgets  to  weep, 
Sea  murmurs  her  soft  slumber-song 
On  the  shadowy  sand 
Of  this  elfin  land  ; 
"  I,  the  Mother  mild, 
Hush  thee,  O  my  child, 
Forget  the  voices  wild  ! 
Isles  in  elfin  light 
Dream,  the  rocks  and  caves, 
Lull'd  by  whispering  waves, 
Veil  their  marbles  bright, 
Foam  glimmers  faintly  white 
Upon  the  shelly  sand 
Of  this  elfin  land ; 
Sea-sound,  like  violins, 
To  slumber  woos  and  wins, 
I  murmur  my  soft  slumber-song, 
Leave  woes,  and  wails,  and  sins, 
Ocean's  shadowy  might 
Breathes  good-night, 
Good-night !  " 


DYING 

THEY  are  waiting  on  the  shore 
For  the  bark  to  take  them  home  ; 
They  will  toil  and  grieve  no  more  ; 
The  hour  for  release  hath  come. 

All  their  long  life  lies  behind, 
Like  a  dimly  blending  dream  ; 
There  is  nothing  left  to  bind 
To  the  realms  that  only  seem. 

They  are  waiting  for  the  boat, 
There  is  nothing  left  to  do  ; 
What  was  near  them  grows  remote, 
Happy  silence  falls  like  dew  ; 
Now  the  shadowy  bark  is  come, 
And  the  weary  may  go  home. 

By  still  water  they  would  rest, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tree  ; 
After  battle  sleep  is  best, 
After  noise  tranquillity. 


RODEN  NOEL 


261 


THE  MERRY-GO-ROUND 

THE  merry-go-round,  the  merry-go-round, 

the  merry-go-round  at  Fowey  ! 
They  whirl  around,  they  gallop  around,  man, 

woman,  and  girl,  and  boy  ; 
They  circle  on  wooden  horses,  white,  black, 

brown,  and  bay, 
To  a  loud  monotonous  tune  that  hath  a 

trumpet  bray. 
All  is  dark  where  the  circus  stands  on  the 

narrow  quay, 
Save  for  its  own  yellow  lamps,  that  illumine 

it  brilliantly  : 
.Painted  purple  and  red,  it  pours  a  broad 

strong  glow 
Over  an  old-world  house,  with   a  pillar'd 

place  below  ; 
For  the  floor  of  the  building  rests  on  bandy 

columns  small, 

And  the  bulging  pile  may,  tottering,  sud- 
denly bury  all. 
But   there  upon  wooden  benches,  hunch'd 

in  the  summer  night, 
Sit  wrinkled  sires  of  the  village  arow,  whose 

hair  is  white  ; 
They  sit  like  the  mummies  of  men,  with  a 

glare  upon  them  cast 
From  a  rushing  flame   of  the  living,  like 

their  own  mad  past  ; 
They  are  watching  the  merry-make,   and 

their  face  is  very  grave  ; 
Over  all  are  the  silent  stars  !  beyond,  the 

cold  gray  wave. 
And  while  I  gaze  on  the  galloping  horses 

circling  round, 
The  men  caracoling  up  and  down  to  a  weird, 

monotonous  sound, 
I  pass  into  a  bewilderment,  and  marvel  why 

they  go  ; 
It  seems  the  earth  revolving,  with  our  vain 

to  and  fro  ! 
For  the  young  may  be  glad  and  eager,  but 

some  ride  listlessly, 
And  the  old  look  on  with  a  weary,  dull, 

and  lifeless  eye  ; 
I  know  that  in  an  hour  the  fair  will  all  be 

gone, 
Stars  shining  over  a  dreary  void,  the  Deep 

have  sound  alone. 
I  gaze  with  orb  suffus'd  at  human  things 

that  fly, 
And  I  am  lost  in  the  wonder  of  our  dim 

destiny.  .  ,  . 


The  merry-go-round,  the  merry-go-round, 
the  merry-go-round  at  Fowey  ! 

They  whirl  around,  they  gallop  around,  man, 
woman,  and  girl,  and  boy. 


LAMENT 

I  AM  lying  in  the  tomb,  love, 

Lying  in  the  tomb, 

Tho'  I  move  within  the  gloom,  love. 

Breathe  within  the  gloom  ! 

Men  deem  life  not  fled,  dear, 

Deem  my  life  not  fled, 

Tho'  I  with  thee  am  dead,  dear, 

I  with  thee  am  dead, 

O  my  little  child  ! 

What  is  the  gray  world,  darling, 

What  is  the  gray  world, 

Where  the  worm  lies  curl'd,  darling, 

The  death  worm  lies  curl'd  ? 

They  tell  me  of  the  spring,  dear  ! 

Do  I  want  the  spring  ? 

Will  she  waft  upon  her  wing,  dear, 

The  joy-pulse  of  her  wing, 

Thy  songs,  thy  blossoming, 

0  my  little  child  ! 

For  the  hallowing  of  thy  smile,  love, 
The  rainbow  of  thy  smile, 
Gleaming  for  a  while,  love, 
Gleaming  to  beguile, 
Replunged  me  in  the  cold,  dear, 
Leaves  me  in  the  cold. 
And  I  feel  so  very  old,  dear, 
Very,  very  old  ! 

Would  they  put  me  out  of  pain,  dear, 
Out  of  all  my  pain, 
Since  I  may  not  live  again,  dear, 
Never  live  again  ! 

1  am  lying  in  the  grave,  love, 
In  thy  little  grave, 

Yet  I  hear  the  wind  rave,  love, 

And  the  wild  wave  ! 

I  would  lie  asleep,  darling, 

With  thee  lie  asleep, 

Unhearing  the  world  weep,  darlings 

Little  children  weep  ! 

O  my  little  child  ! 


262 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


THE   TOY   CROSS 

MY  little  boy  at  Christmas-tide 

Made  me  a  toy  cross  ; 
Two  sticks  he  did,  in  boyish  pride, 

With  brazen  nail  emboss. 

Ah  me  !  how  soon,  on  either  side 

His  dying  bed's  true  cross, 
She  and  I  were  crucified, 

Bemoaning  our  life-loss  ! 

But  He,  whose  arms  in  death  spread  wide 

Upon  the  holy  tree, 
Were  clasp'd  about  him  when  he  died  — 

Clasp'd  for  eternity  ! 


WHENE'ER  there  comes  a  little  child, 
My  darling  comes  with  him  ; 
Whene'er  I  hear  a  birdie  wild 
Who  sings  his  merry  whim, 


Mine  sings  with  him  : 

If  a  low  strain  of  music  sails 

Among  melodious  hills  and  dales, 

When  a  white  lamb  or  kitten  leaps. 

Or  star,  or  vernal  flower  peeps, 

When  rainbow  dews  are  pulsing  joys, 

Or  sunny  waves,  or  leaflets  toy, 

Then  he  who  sleeps 

Softly  wakes  within  my  heart  ; 

With  a  kiss  from  him  I  start ; 

He  lays  his  head  upon  my  breast, 

Tho'  I  may  not  see  my  guest, 

Dear  bosom-guest ! 

In  all  that 's  pure  and  fair  and  good, 

I  feel  the  spring-time  of  thy  blood, 

Hear  thy  whisper'd  accents  flow 

To  lighten  woe, 

Feel  them  blend, 

Although  I  fail  to  comprehend. 

And  if  one  woundeth  with  harsh  word, 

Or  deed,  a  child,  or  beast,  or  bird, 

It  seems  to  strike  weak  Innocence 

Through  him,  who  hath  for  his  defence 

Thunder  of  the  All-loving  Sire, 

And  mine,  to  whom  He  gave  the  fire. 


MEDITATIONS   OF   A   HINDU 
PRINCE 

ALL  the  world  over,  I  wonder,  in  lauds 
that  I  never  have  trod, 

Are  the  people  eternally  seeking  for  the 
signs  and  steps  of  a  God  ? 

Westward  across  the  ocean,  and  North- 
ward across  the  snow, 

Do  they  all  stand  gazing,  as  ever,  and  what 
do  the  wisest  know  ? 

Here,  in  this   mystical  India,   the   deities 

hover  and  swarm 
Like  the  wild  bees  heard  in  the  tree-tops, 

or  the  gusts  of  a  gathering  storm  ; 
In  the  air  men  hear  their  voices,  their  feet 

on  the  rocks  are  seen, 
Yet  we  all  say,  "  Whence  is  the  message, 

and  what  may  the  wonders  mean  ?  " 

A  million  shrines  stand  open,  and  ever  the 

censer  swings, 
As  they  bow  to  a  mystic   symbol,  or  the 

figures  of  ancient  kings  ; 


And  the  incense  rises  ever,  and  rises  the 
endless  cry 

Of  those  who  are  heavy  laden,  and  of  cow- 
ards loth  to  die. 

For  the  Destiny  drives    us    together,  like 

deer  in  a  pass  of  the  hills  ; 
Above  is  the  sky,  and  around  us  the  sound 

of  the  shot  that  kills  ; 
Push'd  by  a  power  we  see  not,  and  struck 

by  a  hand  unknown, 
We  pray  to  the  trees  for  shelter,  and  press 

our  lips  to  a  stone. 

The  trees  wave  a  shadowy  answer,  and  the 

rock  frowns  hollow  and  grim, 
And  the  form  and  the  nod  of  the  demon 

are  caught  in  the  twilight  dim  ; 
And  we  look  to  the  sunlight  falling  afar  oil 

the  mountain  crest,  — 
Is  there  never  a  path    runs   upward  to  a 

refuge  there  and  a  rest  ? 


LYALL  —  AUSTIN 


263 


The  path,  ah  !  who  has  shown  it,  and  which 
is  the  faithful  guide  ? 

The  haven,  ah  !  who  has  known  it  ?  for 
steep  is  the  mountain  side, 

Forever  the  shot  strikes  surely,  and  ever 
the  wasted  breath 

Of  the  praying  multitude  rises,  whose  an- 
swer is  only  death. 

Here  are  the  tombs   of  my  kinsfolk,  the 

fruit  of  an  ancient  name, 
Chiefs  who  were  slain  on  the  war-field,  and 

women  who  died  in  flame  ; 
They  are  gods,  these  kings  of  the  foretime, 

they  are  spirits  who  guard  our  race  : 
Ever  I  watch  and  worship  ;  they  sit  with  a 

marble  face. 

And  the  myriad  idols  around  me,  and  the 
legion  of  muttering  priests, 

The  revels  and  rites  unholy,  the  dark  un- 
speakable feasts  ! 

What  have  they  wrung  from  the  Silence  ? 
Hath  even  a  whisper  come 

Of  the  secret,  Whence  and  Whither  ? 
Alas  !  for  the  gods  are  dumb. 

Shall  I  list  to  the  word  of  the  English,  who 
come  from  the  uttermost  sea  ? 

"The  Secret,  hath  it  been  told  you,  and 
what  is  your  message  to  me  ?  " 


It  is  nought  but  the  wide-world  story  how 
the  earth  and  the  heavens  began, 

How  the  gods  are  glad  and  angry,  and  a 
Deity  once  was  man. 

I  had   thought,  "  Perchance  in  the   cities 

where  the  rulers  of  India  dwell, 
Whose  orders  flash  from  the  far  land,  whc 

girdle  the  earth  with  a  spell, 
They  have  fathom'd  the  depths  we  float  on 

or  measur'd  the  unknown  main  — 
Sadly  they  turn  from  the  venture,  and  say 

that  the  quest  is  vain. 

Is   life,  then,  a  dream   and  delusion,  and 

where  shall  the  dreamer  awake  ? 
Is  the  world  seen  like  shadows  on  water,  and 

what  if  the  mirror  break  ? 
Shall  it  pass  as  a  camp  that  is  struck,  as  a 

tent  that  is  gathered  and  gone 
From  the  sands  that  were  lamp-lit  at  eve, 

and  at  morning  are  level  and  lone  ? 

.  Is  there  nought  in  the  heaven  above,  whence 

the  hail  and  the  levin  are  hurl'd, 
But  the  wind  that  is  swept  around  us  by  the 

rush  of  the  rolling  world  ? 
The  wind  that  shall  scatter  my  ashes,  and 

bear  me  to  silence  and  sleep 
With  the  dirge,  and  the  sounds  of  lamenting, 

and  voices  of  women  who  weep. 


AT  HIS  GRAVE 

HUGHENDEN,    MAY,    l88l 

LEAVE  me  a  little  while  alone, 
Here  at  his  grave  that  still  is  strown 

With  crumbling  flower  and  wreath  ; 
The  laughing  rivulet  leaps  and  falls, 
The  thrush  exults,  the  cuckoo  calls, 

And  he  lies  hush'd  beneath. 

Witli  myrtle  cross  and  crown  of  rose, 
And  every  lowlier  flower  that  blows, 

His  new-made  couch  is  dress'd  ; 
Primrose  and  cowslip,  hyacinth  wild, 
Gather'd  by  monarch,  peasant,  child, 

A  nation's  grief  attest. 

I  stood  not  with  the  mournful  crowd 
That  hither  came  when  round  his  shroud 
Pious  farewells  were  said. 


In  the  fam'd  city  that  he  sav'd, 
By  minaret  crown'd,  by  billow  lav'd, 
I  heard  that  he  was  dead. 

Now  o'er  his  tomb  at  last  I  bend, 
No  greeting  get,  no  greeting  tend, 

Who  never  came  before 
Unto  his  presence,  but  I  took, 
From  word  or  gesture,  tone  or  look, 

Some  wisdom  from  his  door. 

And  must  I  now  unanswer'd  wait, 
And,  though  a  suppliant  at  the  gate. 

No  sound  my  ears  rejoice  ? 
Listen  !     Yes,  even  as  I  stand, 
I  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand, 

The  comfort  of  his  voice. 


264 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


How  poor  were  Fame,  did  grief  confess 
That  death  can  make  a  great  life  less, 

Or  end  the  help  it  gave  ! 
Our  wreaths   may  fade,  our  flowers   may 

wane, 
But  his  well-ripen'd  deeds  remain, 

Untouch'd,  above  his  grave. 

Let  this,  too,  soothe  our  widow'd  minds  ; 
Silenced  are  the  opprobrious  winds 

Whene'er  the  sun  goes  down  ; 
And  free  henceforth  from  noonday  noise, 
He  at  a  tranquil  height  enjoys 

The  starlight  of  renown. 

Thus  hence  we  something  more  may  take 
Than  sterile  grief,  than  formless  ache, 

Or  vainly  utter'd  vow  ; 
Death  hath  bestow'd  what  life  withheld 
And  he  round  whom  detraction  swell'd 

Hath  peace  with  honor  now. 

The  open  jeer,  the  covert  taunt, 

The  falsehood  coin'd  in  factious  haunt, 

These  loving  gifts  reprove. 
They  never  were  but  thwarted  sound 
Of  ebbing  waves  that  bluster  round 

A  rock  that  will  not  move. 

And  now  the  idle  roar  rolls  off, 
Hush'd  is  the  gibe  and  sham'd  the  scoff, 

Repress'd  the  envious  gird  ; 
Since  death,  the  looking-glass  of  life, 
Clear'd  of  the  misty  breath  of  strife, 

Reflects  his  face  unblurr'd. 

From  callow  youth  to  mellow  age, 
Men  turn  the  leaf  and  scan  the  page, 

And  note,  with  smart  of  loss, 
How  wit  to  wisdom  did  mature, 
How  duty  burn'd  ambition  pure, 

And  purged  away  the  dross. 

Youth  is  self-love  ;  our  manhood  lends 
Its  heart  to  pleasure,  mistress,  friends, 

So  that  when  age  steals  nigh, 
How  few  find  any  worthier  aim 
Than  to  protract  a  flickering  flame, 

Whose  oil  hath  long  run  dry  ! 

But  he,  unwitting  youth  once  flown, 
With  England's  greatness  link'd  his  own, 

And,  steadfast  to  that  part, 
Held  praise  and  blame  but  fitful  sound, 
And  in  the  love  of  country  found 

Full  solace  for  his  heart. 


Now  in  an  English  grave  he  lies  : 
With  flowers  that  tell  of  English  skies 

And  mind  of  English  air, 
A  grateful  sovereign  decks  his  bed, 
And  hither  long  with  pilgrim  tread 

Will  English  feet  repair. 

Yet  not  beside  his  grave  alone 

We  seek  the  glance,  the  touch,  the  tone; 

His  home  is  nigh,  —  but  there, 
See  from  the  hearth  his  figure  fled, 
The  pen  unrais'd,  the  page  unread, 

Untenanted  the  chair ! 

Vainly  the  beechen  boughs  have  made 
A  fresh  green  canopy  of  shade, 

Vainly  the  peacocks  stray  ; 
While  Carlo,  with  despondent  gait, 
Wonders  how  long  affairs  of  State 

Will  keep  his  lord  away. 

Here  most  we  miss  the  guide,  the  friend  ; 
Back  to  the  churchyard  let  me  wend, 

And,  by  the  posied  mound, 
Lingering  where  late  stood  worthier  feet, 
Wish  that  some  voice,  more  strong,  more 
sweet, 

A  loftier  dirge  would  sound. 

At  least  I  bring  not  tardy  flowers  : 
Votive  to  him  life's  budding  powers, 

Such  as  they  were,  I  gave  — 
He  not  rejecting,  so  I  may 
Perhaps  these  poor  faint  spices  lay, 

Unchidden,  on  his  grave  ! 

SONGS     FROM     "PRINCE     LU- 
CIFER" 

GRAVE-DIGGER'S  SONG 

THE  crab,  the  bullace,  and  the  sloe, 

They  burgeon  in  the  Spring  ; 
And,  when  the  west  wind  melts  the  snow. 

The  redstarts  build  and  sing. 
But  Death 's  at  work  in  rind  and  root, 

And  loves  the  green  buds  best  ; 
And  when  the  pairing  music  's  mute, 
He  spares  the  empty  nest, 

Death !     Death  ! 

Death  is  master  of  lord  and  clown. 
.  Close  the  coffin,  and  hammer  it  down 

When  nuts  are  brown  and  sere  without, 

And  white  and  plump  within, 
And  juicy  gourds  are  pass'd  about, 

And  trickle  down  the  chin  ; 


ALFRED  AUSTIN 


265 


When  comes  the  reaper  with  his  scythe, 

And  reaps  and  nothing  leaves, 

Oh,  then  it  is  that  Death  is  blithe, 

And  sups  among  the  sheaves. 

Death  !     Death  ! 

Lower  the  coffin  and  slip  the  cord  : 
Death  is  master  of  clown  and  lord. 

jVhen  logs  about  the  house  are  stack'd, 

And  next  year's  hose  is  knit, 
And  tales  are  told  and  jokes  are  crack'd, 

And  faggots  blaze  and  spit  ; 
Death  sits  down  in  the  ingle-nook, 

Sits  down  and  doth  not  speak  : 
But  he  puts  his  arm  round  the  maid  that 's 

warm, 
And  she  tingles  in  the  cheek. 

Death  !     Death  ! 

Death  is  master  of  lord  and  clown  ; 
Shovel  the  clay  in,  tread  it  down. 

MOTHER-SOXG 

WHITE  little  hands  ! 

Pink  little  feet  ! 
Dimpled  all  over, 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet  ! 
What  dost  thou  wail  for  ? 

The  unknown  ?  the  unseen  ? 
The  ills  that  are  coming, 

The  joys  that  have  been  ? 

Cling  to  me  closer, 

Closer  and  closer, 
Till  the  pain  that  is  purer 

Hath  banish'd  the  grosser. 
Drain,  drain  at  the  stream,  love, 

Thy  hunger  is  freeing, 
That  was  born  in  a  dream,  love, 

Along  with  thy  being  ! 

Little  fingers  that  feel 

For  their  home  on  my  breast, 
Little  lips  that  appeal 

For  their  nurture,  their  rest  ! 
Why,  why  dost  thou  weep,  dear  ? 

Nay,  stifle  thy  cries, 
Till  the  dew  of  thy  sleep,  dear, 

Lies  soft  on  thine  eyes. 

AGATHA 

SHE  wanders  in  the  April  woods, 
That  glisten  with  the  fallen  shower  ; 

She  leans  her  face  against  the  buds, 

She  stops,  she  stoops,  she  plucks  a  flower. 


She  feels  the  ferment  of  the  hour  : 
She  broodeth  when  the  ringdove  broods  ; 
The  sun  and  flying  clouds  have  power 
Upon  her  cheek  and  changing  moods. 
She  cannot  think  she  is  alone, 

As  o'er  her  senses  warmly  steal 
Floods  of  unrest  she  fears  to  own, 
And  almost  dreads  to  feel. 

Among  the  summer  woodlands  wide 
Anew  she  roams,  no  more  alone  ; 
The  joy  she  fear'd  is  at  her  side, 

Spring's  blushing  secret  now  is  known. 
The  primrose  and  its  mates  have  flown. 
The  thrush's  ringing  note  hath  died  ; 
But  glancing  eye  and  glowing  tone 
Fall  on  her  from  her  god,  her  guide. 
She  knows  not,  asks  not,  what  the  goal, 
She    only    feels    she    moves    towards 

bliss, 

And  yields  her  pure  unquestioning  soul 
To  touch  and  fondling  kiss. 

And  still  she  haunts  those  woodland  ways, 

Though  all  fond  fancy  finds  there  uow 
To  mind  of  spring  or  summer  days, 

Are  sodden  trunk  and  songless  bough. 

The  past  sits  widow'd  on  her  brow, 
Homeward  she  wends  with  wintry  gaze, 

To  walls  that  house  a  hollow  vow, 
To  hearth  where  love  hath  ceas'd  to  blaze  J 

Watches  the  clammy  twilight  wane, 
With  grief  too  fix'd  for  woe  or  tear  ; 

And,  with  her  forehead  'gainst  the  panpf 
Envies  the  dying  year. 

THE  HAYMAKERS'  SONG 

HERE  's  to  him  that  grows  it, 
Drink,  lads,  drink  ! 

That  lays  it  in  and  mows  it, 
Clink,  jugs,  clink  ! 

To  him  that  mows  and  makes  it, 

That  scatters  it  and  shakes  it, 

That  turns,  and  teds,  and  rakes  it, 
Clink,  jugs,  clink ! 

Now  here  's  to  him  that  stacks  it, 
Drink,  lads,  drink  ! 

That  thrashes  and  that  tacks  it, 
Clink,  jugs,  clink  ! 

That  cuts  it  out  for  eating, 

When  March-dropp'd  lambs  are  bleating, 

And  the  slate-blue  clouds  are  sleeting, 
Drink,  lads,  drink  ! 


266 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


And  here 's  to  thane  and  yeoman, 
Drink,  lads,  drink  ! 

To  horseman  and  to  bowman, 
Clink,  jugs,  clink  ! 


To  lofty  and  to  low  man, 
Who  bears  a  grudge  to  no  man, 
But  flinches  from  no  foeman, 
Drink,  lads,  drink  1 


MARIAN 

PASSING  feet  pause,  as  they  pass, 
By  this  little  slab  of  slate. 

People,  if  they  go  this  way, 
By  the  linchen'd  wicket  gate, 

At  each  other  look  and  say, 

"  Pity,  pity  !  sad  it  was  !  " 

Here  have  fallen  as  many  tears 
As  the  months  in  her  short  years. 

Seven  and  ten  brief  sunny  springs  ; 

Scarce  so  many  winter  snows  : 
Here  the  little  speedwell  keeps 

Watch  beside  the  pale  dog-rose  ; 
On  this  hillock,  while  she  sleeps 
Underneath,  the  red-breast  sings. 

Wedded  on  an  April  day  ! 

In  the  Autumn  laid  away  ! 

PHANTOMS 

MY  days  are  full  of  pleasant  memories 

Of  all  those  women  sweet, 
Whom  I  have  known  !    How  tenderly  their 
eyes 

Flash  thro'  the  days  —  too  fleet !  — 
Which  long  ago  went  by  with  sun  and  rain, 

Flowers,  or  the  winter  snow  ; 
And  still  thro'  memory's  palace-halls  are 
fain 

In  rustling  robes  to  go  ! 
Or  wed,  or  widow'd,or  with  milkless  breasts, 

Around  those  women  stand, 
Like   mists   that  linger  on  the   mountain 
crests 

Rear'd  in  a  phantom  land  ; 
And  love  is  in  their  mien  and  in  their  look, 

And  from  their  lips  a  stream 
Of  tender  words  flows,  smooth  as  any  brook, 

And  softer  than  a  dream  : 
And,  one  by  one,  holding  my  hands,  they  say 

Things  of  the  years  agone  ; 
And  each  head  will  a  little  turn  away, 

And  each  one  still  sigh  on  ; 


Because   they  think  such  meagre  joy  we 

had  ; 

For  love  was  little  bold, 
And  youth  had   store,  and   chances  to  be 

glad, 

And  squander'd  so  his  gold. 
Blue  eyes,  and  gray,  and  blacker  than  the 

sloe, 

And  dusk  and  golden  hair, 
And  lips  that  broke  in  kisses  long  ago, 

Like  sun-kiss'd  flowers,  are  there  ; 
And  warm  fire-side,  and  sunny  orchard  wall, 

And  river-brink  and  bower, 
And  wood  and  hill,  and  morning  and  day- 
fall, 

And  every  place  and  hour  ! 
And  each  on  each  a  white  unclouded  brow 

Still  as  a  sister  bends, 
As  they  would  say,  "  love  makes  us  kindred 

now, 
Who  sometime  were  his  friends." 

BY  THE  SALPETRIERE 

I  SAW  a  poor  old  woman  on  the  bench 
That  you  may  find  by  the  Salpe'triere. 
The  yellow  leaves  were  falling,  and  the 

wind 

Gave  hint  of  bitter  days  to  come  ere  long. 
And  yet  the  sun  was  bright  :  and  as  I  knew 
A  little  sun,  with  the  Parisiennes, 
Means  light  of  heart,  I  could  not  but  de- 
mand 

"  Why,  now,  so  near  to  weeping,  citizen  ?  " 
She  look'd  up  at  me  with  vague  surprise, 
And  said,  "  You  see  I  'm  old  ;  I  'in  very 

old: 

I  'm  eighty  years  and  nine  ;  and  people  say 
This  winter  will  be   hard.     And  we  have 

here, 

We  poor  old  women  in  this  hospital, 
A  mortal  dread  of  one  strange  bitter  thing. 
We  would  be  buried  in  a  coffin,  we  ; 
For  each  her  own.    It  is  not  much  you 
crave, 


ASHE  — WATTS 


267 


Who  've  striven  ninety  years,  and  come  to 

this, 

And  we  would  have  the  priest  to  say  a  prayer 
To  the  good  God  for  us,  within  the  church, 
Before  we  go  the  way  that  go  we  must. 
And  sou  by  sou  we  save  :  —  a  coffin  costs,  — 
You   hear,  Sir  ?  —  sixteen  francs  ;  and   if 

we  go 
To  church  en  route,  't  is  six  francs  for  the 

priest. 
There  's  some  of  us  have  sav'd  it  all,  and 

smile, 
With  the  receipt  sew'd  up,  lest  they  should 

lose 

This  passport  to  the  grave  of  honest  folk. 
But  one  may  die  before  ;  and  then  there  is 
One  coffin  for  us  all,  and  we  are  borne 
To  our  last  place,  and   slipp'd  within  the 

grave, 

And  back  they  take  the  coffin  for  the  next. 
And  if  you  've  sixteen  francs,  and  not  the  six, 
No  church,but  just  a  sprinkle  with  the  brush, 
And  half  a  prayer,  and  you  must  take  your 

chance. 

Good  God  !  and  I  shall  die  :  I  know  I  shall : 
I  feel  it  here  !  and  I  have  ten  francs  just  : 
No  more  !  "    My  tears  fell  like  a  shower  of 

rain. 
I  said,   "  Old    woman,    here 's    the    other 

twelve  ; " 
And  fled,  with   great  strides,  like  a  man 

possess'd. 

A   VISION    OF   CHILDREN 

I  DREAM'D  I  saw  a  little  brook 
Run  rippling  down  the  Strand  ; 

With  cherry-trees  and  apple-trees 
Abloom  on  either  hand  : 


The  sparrows  gather'd  from  the  Squares, 

Upon  the  branches  green  ; 
The  pigeons  flock'd  from  Palace-Yard, 

Afresh  their  wings  to  preen  ; 
And  children  down  St.  Martin's  Lane, 

And  out  of  Westminster, 
Came  trooping,  many  a  thousand  strong, 

With  a  bewilder'd  air. 
They  hugg'd  each  other  round  the  neck 

And  titter'd  for  delight, 
To  see  the  yellow  daffodils, 

And  see  the  daisies  white  ; 
They  roll'd  upon  the  grassy  slopes, 

And  drank  the  water  clear, 
While  'busses  the  Embankment  took, 

Asham'd  to  pass  auear  ; 
And  sandwich-men  stood  still  aghast, 

And  costermongers  smiPd  ; 
And  the  policeman  on  his  beat 

Pass'd,  weeping  like  a  child. 


POETA   NASCITUR 

THE  flame-wing'd  seraph  spake  a  word 

To  one  of  Galilee  :  — 
"  Be  not  afraid  :  know,  of  the  Lord 

Is  that  is  born  of  thee." 

And  by  the  poet's  bliss  and  woe 
Learn  we  the  will  of  Heaven  : 

He  is  God's  instrument ;  and  so 
Swords  in  his  heart  are  seven. 

He  is  God's  oracle  and  slave, 

As  once  the  priestesses  ; 
His  griefs  in  keeping  we  should  have, 

To  heal,  or  make  them  less. 


ODE   TO    MOTHER   CAREY'S 
CHICKEN 

(ON    SEEING   A   STORM-PETREL    IN    A   CAGE  ON  A 
COTTAGE   WALL   AND    RELEASING    IT) 

GAZE  not  at  me,  my  poor  unhappy  bird  ; 

That  sorrow  is  more  than  human  in  thine 

eye; 
Too  deep  already  is  my  spirit  stirr'd 

To  see  thee  here,  child  of  the  sea  and  sky, 


C  oop'd  in  a  cage  with  food  thou  canst  not  eat, 
Thy  "  snow-flake "  soil'd,  and  soil'd  those 

conquering  feet 
That  walk'd  the  billows,  while  thy  "  sweet- 

sweet-sweet " 

Proclaim'd  the  tempest  nigh. 

Bird  whom  I  welcom'd  while  the  sailors 

curs'd, 

Friend  whom  I  bless'd  wherever  keels 
may  roam, 


268 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Prince  of  my  childish  dreams,  whom  mer- 
maids nurs'd 

In  purple  of  billows  —  silver  of  ocean- 
foam, 

Abash'd  I  stand  before  the  mighty  grief 
That  quells  all  other  :   Sorrow's  king  and 

chief  : 

To  ride  the  wind  and  hold  the  sea  in  fief, 
Then  find  a  cage  for  home  ! 

From  out  thy  jail  thou  scest  yon  heath  and 

woods, 
But  canst  thou  hear  the  birds  or  smell 

the  flowers  ? 
Ah,  no  !  those  rain-drops  twinkling  on  the 

buds 

Bring  only  visions  of  the  salt  sea-showers. 
"  The  sea  !  "  the  linnets  pipe  from  hedge 

and  heath  ; 
"  The  sea  !  "  the  honeysuckles  whisper  and 

breathe  ; 

And  tumbling  waves,  where  those  wild-roses 
wreathe, 

Murmur  from  inland  bowers. 

These  winds  so  soft  to  others,  —  how  they 

burn  ! 
The  mavis  sings  with  gurgle  and  ripple 

and  plash, 

To  thee  yon  swallow  seems  a  wheeling  tern. 

And  when  the  rain  recalls  the  briny  lash 

Old  Ocean's  kiss  thou  lovest,  —  when  thy 

sight 
Is  mock'd  with  Ocean's  horses  —  manes  of 

white, 

The  long  and  shadowy  flanks,  the  shoulders 
bright  — 

Bright  as  the  lightning's  flash, — 

When  all  these  scents  of  heather  and  brier 

and  whin, 
All  kindly  breaths  of  land-shrub,  flower, 

and  vine, 

Recall  the  sea-scents,  till  thy  feather'd  skin 

Tingles  in  answer  to  a  dream  of  brine,  — 

When  thou,  remembering  there  thy  royal 

birth, 

Dost  see  between  the  bars  a  world  of  dearth, 
Is  there  a  grief  —  a  grief  on  all  the  earth  — 
So  heavy  and  dark  as  thine  ? 

But  I   can  buy  thy   freedom  —  I  (thank 

God!), 

Who  lov'd  thee  more  than  albatross  or 
gull, 


Lov'd  thee  when  on  the  waves  thy  footsteps 

trod, 
Dream'd  of  thee  when,  becalm'd,  we  lay 

a-hull  — 

'T  is  I  thy  friend  who  once,  a  child  of  six, 
To  find  where  Mother  Carey  fed  her  chicks, 
Climb'd   up   the  stranded  punt,  and  with 
two  sticks 

Tried  all  in  vain  to  scull.,  — 

Thy  friend  who  ow'd  a  Paradise  of  Storm,  — 

The  little  dreamer  of  the  cliffs  and  coves, 

Who  knew  thy  mother,  saw  her  shadowy 

form 
Behind  the   cloudy  bastions  where   she 

moves, 

And  heard  her  call :  "  Come  !  for  the  wel- 
kin thickens, 
And   tempests   mutter   and   the   lightning 

quickens  ! " 

Then,  starting  from  his  dream,  would  find 
the  chickens 

Were  only  blue  rock-doves,  — 

Thy  friend  who  ow'd  another  Paradise 

Of  calmer  air,  a  floating  isle  of  fruit, 
Where  sang  the  Nereids  on  a  breeze  of  spice 
While  Triton,  from  afar,   would   sound 

salute  : 
There  wast  thou  winging,  though  the  skies 

were  calm, 
For  marvellous  strains,  as  of  the  morning's 

shalm, 

Were  struck  by  ripples  round  that  isle  of 
palm 

Whose  shores  were  "  Carey's  lute." 

And  now  to  see  thee  here,  my  king,  my  king, 
Far-glittering  memories  mirror'd  in  those 

eyes, 

As  if  there  shone  within  each  iris-ring 
An  orbed  world  —  ocean  and  hills  and 

skies  !  — 
Those  black  wings  ruffled  whose  triumphant 

sweep 
Conquer'd  in  sport !  —  yea,  up  the  glimmer- 

ing  steep 

Of  highest  billow,  down  the  deepest  deep, 
Sported  with  victories  ! 

To  see  thee  here  !  —  a  coil  of  wilted  weeds 
Beneath  those  feet  that  danced  on  dia- 
mond spray, 

Rider  of  sportive  Ocean's  reinless  steeds  — 
Winner  in  Mother  Carey's  sabbath-fray 


THEODORE  WATTS 


269 


When,  stung  by  magic  of  the  witch's  chant, 
They  rise,  each  foamy-crested  combatant  — 
They  rise  and  fall  and  leap  and  foam  and 

gallop  and  pant 

Till  albatross,  sea-swallow,  and  cormorant 
Would  flee  like  doves  away  ! 

And  shalt  thou  ride  no  more  where  thou 

hast  ridden, 
And  feast  no  more  in  hyaline  halls  and 

caves, 
Master  of  Mother  Carey's  secrets  hidden, 

Master  most  equal  of  the  wind  and  waves, 

Who  never,  save  in  stress  of  angriest  blast, 

Ask'd  ship  for  shelter,  —  never,  till  at  last 

The  foam-flakes,  hurl'd  against  the  sloping 

mast, 

Slash'd  thee  like  whirling  glaives  ! 

Right  home  to  fields  no  seamew  ever  kenn'd, 
Where   scarce   the    great    sea-wanderer 

fares  with  thee, 
I   come   to  take   thee  —  nay,    't  is    I,   thy 

friend  — 

Ah,  tremble  not  —  I  come  to  set  thee  free  ; 

I  come  to  tear  this  cage  from  off  this  wall, 

And  take  thee  hence  to  that  fierce  festival 

Where  billows  march  and  winds  are  musical, 

Hymning  the  Victor-Sea ! 


Yea,  lift  thine  eyes,  my  own  can  bear  them 

now  •„ 
Thou'rt  free  !   thou'rt  free.     Ah,  surely 

a  bird  can  smile  ! 
Dost  know  me,  Petrel  ?  Dost  remember  how 

I  fed  thee  in  the  wake  for  many  a  mile, 
Whilst  thou  wouldst  pat  the  waves,  then, 

rising,  take 

The  morsel  up  and  wheel  about  the  wake  ? 
Thou  'rt  free,  thou  'rt  free,  but  for  thine 
own  dear  sake 

I  keep  thee  caged  awhile. 

Away  to  sea  !  no  matter  where  the  coast  : 
The  road  that  turns  to  home  turns  never 

wrong  : 
Where  waves  run  high  my  bird  will  not  be 

lost: 
His  home  I  know  :  't  is  where  the  winds 

are  strong,  — 
Where,  on  her  throne  of   billows,  rolling 

hoary 
And    green    and   blue   and   splash'd    with 

sunny  glory, 


Far,  far  from  shore  —  from  farthest  prom- 
ontory — 

The  mighty  Mother  sings  the  triumphs  of 
her  story, 

Sings  to  my  bird  the  song  ! 

THE   SONNET'S   VOICE 

(A  METRICAL  LESSON   BY  THE   SEASHORE) 

YON  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach 
Fall  back  in  foam  beneath  the  star-shine 

clear, 
The  while  my  rhymes  are  murmuring  in 

your  ear 

A  restless  lore  like  that  the  billows  teach  ; 
For  on  these  sonnet-waves  my  soul  would 

reach 
From  its  own  depths,  and  rest  within  you, 

dear, 

As,  through  the  billowy  voices  yearning  here, 
Great  nature  strives  to  find  a  human  speech. 
A  sonnet  is  a  wave  of  melody  : 
From  heaving  waters   of   the   impassion'd 

soul 

A  billow  of  tidal  music  one  and  whole 
Flows  in  the  "  octave  ;  "  then  returning  free, 
Its  ebbing  surges  in  the  "  sestet "  roll 
Back  to  the  deeps  of  Life's  tumultuous  sea. 

COLERIDGE 

I  SEE  thee  pine  like  her  in  golden  story 

Who,  in  her  prison,  woke  and  saw,  one  day, 

The  gates  thrown  open  —  saw  the  sunbeams 
play, 

With  only  a  web  'tween  her  and  summer's 
glory  ; 

Who,  when  that  web  —  so  frail,  so  transi- 
tory 

It  broke  before  her  breath  —  had  fallen 
away, 

Saw  other  webs  and  others  rise  for  aye 

Which  kept  her  prison'd  till  her  hair  was 
hoary. 

Those  songs  half-sung  that  yet  were  all- 
divine  — 

That  woke  Romance,  the  queen,  to  reign 
afresh  — 

Had  been  but  preludes  from  that  lyre  of 
thine, 

Could  thy  rare  spirit's  wings  have  pierced 
the  mesh 

Spun  by  the  wizard  who  compels  the  flesh, 

But  lets  the  poet  see  how  heav'n  can  shine. 


270 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


THE   BREATH   OF   AVON 

TO  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  GREATER  BRITAIN 
ON  SHAKESPEARE'S  BIRTHDAY 


WHATE'ER  of  woe  the  Dark  may  hide  in 

womb 
For  England,  mother  of  kings  of  battle  and 

song  — 

Be  it  rapine,  racial  hates,  mysterious  wrong, 
Blizzard  of  Chance,  or  fiery  dart  of  Doom  — 
Let  breath  of  Avon,  rich  of  meadow-bloom, 
Bind  her  to  that  great  daughter  sever'd 

long  — 
To  near  and  far-off  children  young  and 

strong  — 

With  fetters  woven  of  Avon's  flower  per- 
fume. 

Welcome,  ye  English-speaking  pilgrims,  ye 
Whose  hands  around  the  world  are  join'd 

by  him, 
Who  make  his  speech  the  language  of  the 

sea, 

Till  winds  of  Ocean  waft  from  rim  to  rim 
The  breath  of  Avon  :   let  this  great  day 

be 
A  Feast  of  Race  no  power  shall  ever  dim. 


From  where  the  steeds  of  Earth's  twin 
oceans  toss 

Their  manes  along  Columbia's  chariot- 
way — 

From  where  Australia's  long  blue  billows 
play  — 

From  where  the  morn,  quenching  the 
Southern  Cross, 

Startling  the  frigate-bird  and  albatross 

Asleep  in  air,  breaks  over  Table  Bay  — 

Come  hither,  Pilgrims,  where  these  rushes 
sway 

'Tween  grassy  banks  of  Avon  soft  as  moss  ! 

For,  if  ye  found  the  breath  of  Ocean  sweet, 

Sweeter  is  Avon's  earthy,  flowery  smell, 

Distill'd  from  roots  that  feel  the  coming 
spell 

Of  May,  who  bids  all  flowers  that  lov'd  him 
meet 

In  meadows  that,  remembering  Shake- 
speare's feet, 

Hold  still  a  dream  of  music  where  they 
fell. 


THE   FIRST    KISS 

IF  only  in  dreams  may  man  be  fully  blest, 

Is  heav'n  a  dream  ?  Is  she  I  clasp'd  a 
dream  ? 

Or  stood  she  here  even  now  where  dew- 
drops  gleam 

And  miles  of  furze  shine  golden  down  the 
West? 

I  seem  to  clasp  her  still  —  still  on  my  breast 

Her  bosom  beats,  —  I  see  the  blue  eyes 
beam  :  — 

I  think  she  kiss'd  these  lips,  for  now  they 
seem 

Scarce  mine  :  so  hallow'd  of  the  lips  they 
press'd  ! 

Yon  thicket's  breath  —  can  that  be  eglan- 
tine ? 

Those  birds  —  can  they  be  morning's  choris- 
ters ? 

Can  this  be  earth  ?  Can  these  be  banks  of 
furze  ? 

Like  burning  bushes  fir'd  of  God  they  shine  ! 

I  seem  to  know  them,  though  this  body  of 
mine 

Pass'd  into  spirit  at  the  touch  of  hers  ! 

TOAST   TO    OMAR   KHAYYAM 

AN  EAST  ANGLIAN  ECHO-CHORUS 

Chorus 

IN  this  red  wine,  where   Memory's  eyes 

seem  glowing 
Of   days   when   wines   were   bright    by 

Ouse  and  Cam, 
And  Norfolk's  foaming   nectar   glittered, 

showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John  Barleycorn  was 

growing, 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  lore  is  Nature's 

knowing, 

Omar  Khayyam  ! 


Star-gazer  who  canst  read,  when  night  is 

strewing 
Her  scriptured  orbs  on  Time's  frail  ori- 

flamme, 
Nature's    proud    blazon  :    "  Who    shall 

bless  or  damn  ? 

Life,   Death,   and    Doom  are   all    of    my 
bestowing ! " 


WATTS  — GRAY 


271 


Chorus 
Omar  Khayyam  ! 

ii 

Master  whose  stream  of  balm  and  music, 

flowing 
Through  Persian   gardens,  widened  till 

it  swam  — 
A  fragrant  tide  no  bank  of  Time  shall 

dam  — 

Through  Suffolk  meads  where   gorse  and 
may  were  blowing, 

Chorus 
Omar  Khayydm  ! 


Who  blent  thy  song  with  sound  of  cattle 

lowing, 
And  caw  of   rooks  that   perch  on  ewe 

and  ram, 
And  hymn  of  lark,  and  bleat  of  orphan 

lamb, 

And  swish  of  scythe  in  Bredfield's   dewy 
mowing  ? 


Chorus 
Omar  Khayydm  ! 


T  was  Fitz,  "  Old  Fitz,"  whose  knowledge, 

farther  going 
Than  lore  of  Omar,  "  Wisdom's  starry 

Cham," 

Made  richer  still  thine  opulent  epigram  : 
Sowed  seed  from   seed  of  thine  immortal 
sowing. 

Chorus 
Omar  Kbayydm  ! 

In  this   red   wine,   where   Memory's   eyes 

seem  glowing 
Of   days    when   wines   were    bright    by 

Ouse  and  Cam, 
And    Norfolk's    foaming  nectar  glittered, 

showing 
What  beard  of  gold  John  Barleycorn  was 

growing, 
We  drink  to  thee  whose  lore  is  Nature's 

knowing, 

Omar  Khayydm  ! 


SDatoifc 


THE   DEAR   OLD   TOILING   ONE 

OH,  many  a  leaf  will  fall  to-night, 

As  she  wanders  through  the  wood  ! 

And  many  an  angry  gust  will  break 

The  dreary  solitude. 

I  wonder  if  she  's  past  the  bridge, 

Where  Luggie  moans  beneath, 

While  rain-drops  clash  in  planted  lines 

On  rivulet  and  heath. 

Disease  hath  laid  his  palsied  palm 

Upon  my  aching  brow  ; 

The  headlong  blood  of  twenty-one 

Is  thin  and  sluggish  now. 

'T  is  nearly  ten  !     A  fearful  night, 

Without  a  single  star 

To  light  the  shadow  on  her  soul 

With  sparkle  from  afar  : 

The  moon  is  canopied  with  clouds, 

And  her  burden  it  is  sore  ; 

What  would  wee  Jackie  do,  if  he 

Should  never  see  her  more  ? 

Ay,  light  the  lamp,  and  hang  it  up 

At  the  window  fair  and  free  ; 


'T  will  be  a  beacon  on  the  hill 

To  let  your  mother  see. 

And  trim  it  well,  my  little  Ann, 

For  the  night  is  wet  and  cold, 

And  you  know  the  weary,  winding  way 

Across  the  miry  wold. 

All  drench'd  will  be  her  simple  gown, 

And  the  wet  will  reach  her  skin  : 

I  wish  that  I  could  wander  down, 

And  the  red  quarry  win, 

To  take  the  burden  from  her  back, 

And  place  it  upon  mine  ; 

With  words  of  cheerful  condolence, 

Not  utter'd  to  repine. 

You  have  a  kindly  mother,  dears, 

As  ever  bore  a  child, 

And  Heaven  knows  I  love  her  well 

In  passion  undenl'd. 

Ah  me  !  I  never  thought  that  she 

Would  brave  a  night  like  this, 

While  I  sat  weaving  by  the  fire 

A  web  of  fantasies. 

How  the  winds  beat  this  home  of  ours 

With  arrow-falls  of  rain  ; 


272 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


This  lonely  home  upon  the  hill 

They  beat  with  might  and  main. 

And  'mid  the  tempest  one  lone  heart 

Anticipates  the  glow, 

Whence,  all  her  weary  journey  done, 

Shall  happy  welcome  How. 

'T  is  after  ten  !     O,  were  she  here, 

Young  man  although  I  be, 

I  could  fall  down  upon  her  neck, 

And  weep  right  gushingly  ! 

I  have  not  lov'd  her  half  enough, 

The  dear  old  toiling  one, 

The  silent  watcher  by  my  bed, 

In  shadow  or  in  sun. 

I    DIE,   BEING  YOUNG 

'«  WHOM  the   gods  love  die  young."     The 

thought  is  old, 

And  yet  it  sooth'd  the  sweet  Athenian  mind. 
I  take  it  with  all  pleasure,  overbold 
Perhaps,  yet  to  its  virtue  much  inclin'd 
By  an  inherent  love  for  what  is  fair. 
This  is  the  utter  poetry  of  woe, 
That  the  bright-flashing  gods  should  cure 

despair 
By  love,  and  make  youth  precious  here  below. 


I  die,  being  young  ;  and,  dying,  could  be- 
come 

A  pagan,  with  the  tender  Grecian  trust. 

Let  death,  the  fell  anatomy,  benumb 

The  hand  that  writes,  and  fill  my  mouth 
with  dust : 

Chant  no  funereal  theme,  but,  with  a 
choral 

Hymn,  O  ye  mourners,  hail  immortal  youth 
auroral. 

MY    EPITAPH 

BELOW  lies  one  whose  name  was  traced  in 

sand. 
He   died,  not    knowing  what    it  was    to 

live  : 
Died,  while  the  first  sweet  consciousness  of 

manhood 

To  maiden  thought  electrified  his  soul, 
Faint  heatings  in  the  calyx  of  the  rose. 
Bewilder'd  reader,  pass  without  a  sigh, 
In  a  proud  sorrow  !  There  is  life  with 

God 

In  other  kingdom  of  a  sweeter  air. 
In  Eden  every  flower  is  blown  :  Amen. 


AN   EPISODE 

VASARI  tells  that  Luca  Signorelli, 
The  morning  star  of  Michael  Angelo, 
Had  but  one  son,  a  youth  of  seventeen  sum- 
mers, 
WTho  died.      That  day  the   master  at  his 

easel 
Wielded  the  liberal   brush  wherewith    he 

painted 

At  Orvieto,  on  the  Duomo's  walls, 
Stern  forms  of  Death  and  Heaven  and  Hell 

and  Judgment. 
Then  came  they  to  him,  and  cried  :  "  Thy 

son  is  dead, 

Slain  in  a  duel  ;  but  the  bloom  of  life 
Yet   lingers   round    red    lips    and   downy 

cheek." 
Luca  spoke  not,  but  listen'd.     Next  they 

bore 

His  cload  son  to  the  silent  painting-room, 
And  left  on  tiptoe  son  and  sire  alone. 


Still  Luca  spoke  and  groan'd  not ;  but  he 
rais'd 

The  wonderful  dead  youth,  and  smooth'd 
his  hair, 

Wash'd  his  red  wounds,  and  laid  him  on  a 
bed, 

Naked  and  beautiful,  where  rosy  curtains 

Shed  a  soft  glimmer  of  uncertain  splen- 
dor 

Life-like  upon  the  marble  limbs  below. 

Then  Luca  seiz'd  his  palette  :  hour  by 
hour 

Silence  was  in  the  room  ;  none  durst  ap- 
proach : 

Morn  wore  to  noon,  and  noon  to  eve,  when 
shyly 

A  little  maid  peep'd  in,  and  saw  the  painter 

Painting  his  dead  son  with  unerring  hand- 
stroke, 

Firm  and  dry-ey'd  before  the  lordly  can- 
vas. 


JOHN   ADDINGTON   SYMONDS 


273 


LUX   EST   UMBRA   DEI 

NAY,  Death,  thou  art  a  shadow  !     Even  as 

light 

Is  but  the  shadow  of  invisible  God, 
And  of  that  shade  the  shadow  is  thin  Night, 
Veiling  the  earth  whereon  our  feet   have 

trod  ; 

So  art  Thou  but  the  shadow  of  this  life, 
Itself  the  pale  and  unsubstantial  shade 
Of  living  God,  f ulfill'd  by  love  and  strife 
Throughout   the    universe    Himself    hath 

made  : 
And  as  frail  Night,  following  the  flight  of 

earth, 
Obscures  the  world  we  breathe  in,  for   a 

while, 

So  Thou,  the  reflex  of  our  mortal  birth, 
Veilest   the    life    wherein   we   weep    and 

smile  : 
But  when  both  earth  and  life  are  whirl'd 

away, 
What   shade   can   shroud   us   from   God's 

deathless  day  ? 


I  WENT  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 
moan. 

Hard  task  it  were  to  tell  how  dewy-still 
Were  flowers   and  ferns  and  foliage  in 

the  rays 
Of  Hesper,  white  amid  the  daffodil 

Of  twilight  fleck'd  with  faintest  chryso- 

prase  ; 
And   all  the  while,  embower'd  in  leafy 

bays, 

The  bird  prolong' d  her  sharp  soul-thrilling 
tone. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 
moan. 

But  as  I  stood  and  listened,  on  the  air 

Arose  another  voice  more  clear  and  keen, 
That  startled  silence  with  a  sweet  despair, 
And  still'd   the    bird  beneath  her  leafy 

screen  : 
The  star  of  Love,  those  lattice-boughs 

between, 
Grew  large  and  lean'd  to  listen  from  his 


I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made   her 
moan. 

The  voice,  methought,  was   neither  man's 

nor  boy's, 
Nor  bird's  nor  woman's,  but  all  these  in 

one  : 

In  Paradise  perchance  such  perfect  noise 
Resounds  from  angel  choirs  in  unison, 
Chanting  with  cherubim  their  antiphon 
To  Christ  and  Mary  on  the  sapphire  throne. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 
moan. 

Then  down  the  forest  aisles  there  came  a 

boy, 

Unearthly  pale,  with  passion  in  his  eyes  ; 
Who  sang  a  song  whereof  the  sound  was  joy, 
But  all  the  burden  was  of  love  that  dies 
And    death  that  lives  —  a  song  of  sobs 

and  sighs, 

A  wild  swan's  note  of  Death  and  Love  in 
one. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 
moan. 

Love  burn'd  within  his  luminous  eyes,  and 

Death 
Had  made  his  fluting  voice  so  keen  and 

high, 

The  wild  wood  trembled  as  he  pass'd  be- 
neath, 
With  throbbing  throat  singing,  Love-led, 

to  die  : 
Then  all  was  hush'd,  till  in  the  thicket 

nigh 

The  bird  resum'd  her  sharp  soul-thrilliug 
tone. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 
moan. 

But  in  my  heart  and  in  my  brain  the  cry, 
The  wail,  the  dirge,  the  dirge  of  Death 

and  Love, 
Still  throbs  and  throbs,  flute-like,  and  will 

not  die, 

Piercing  and  clear  the  night-bird's  tune 
above,  — 


274 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


The  aching,  anguish'd,  wild-swan's  note, 

whereof 

The    sweet  sad   flower  of   song  was  over- 
blown. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone, 
And  heard  the  nightingale  that  made  her 


THE  FALL  OF  A  SOUL 

I  SAT  unsphering  Plato  ere  I  slept : 

Then  through  my  dream  the  choir  of  gods 

was  borne, 

Swift  as  the  wind  and  splendid  as  the  morn, 
Fronting  the  night  of  stars  ;  behind  them 

swept 

Tempestuous  darkness  o'er  a  drear  descent, 
Wherein  I  saw  a  crowd  of  charioteers 
Urging  their  giddy  steeds  with  cries  and 

cheers, 
To  join    the  choir  that  aye    before    them 

went  : 

But  one  there  was  who  fell,  with  broken  car 
And   horses    swooning   down    the  gulf  of 

gloom  ; 
Heavenward  his  eyes,  though  prescient  of 

their  doom, 

Reflected  glory  like  a  falling  star, 
While  with  wild  hair  blown  back  and  list- 
less hands 
Ruining  he  sank  toward  undiscover'd  lands. 


FAREWELL 

IT  is  buried  and  done  with, 
The  love  that  we  knew  : 

Those  cobwebs  we  spun  with 
Are  beaded  with  dew. 

I  lov'd  thee  ;  I  leave  thee  : 
To  love  thee  was  pain  : 

I  dare  not  believe  thee, 
To  love  thee  again. 

Like  spectres  unshriven 
Are  the  years  that  I  lost ; 

To  thee  they  were  given 
Without  count  of  cost. 

I  cannot  revive  them 
By  penance  or  prayer  : 

Hell's  tempest  must  drive  them 
Through  turbulent  air. 


Farewell,  and  forget  me ; 

For  I  too  am  free 
From  the  shame  that  beset  me, 

The  sorrow  of  thee. 

IL  FIOR  DEGLI    EROICI  FURORI 

(SAXIFRAGA   PYRAMIDALIS) 

I  BLOOM  but  once,  and  then  I  perish ; 

This  plume  of  snow 
No  sun  or  soft  south  wind  will  cherish  — 

'T  is  drooping  now. 

Black  streams  beneath  me  foam  and  thun- 
der ; 

Their  icy  breath, 
There  where  the  rocks  are  rent  asuuder, 

Wooes  me  with  death. 

Still  like  a  fair  imperial  streamer 

I  float  and  flaunt ; 
I  am  no  light  luxurious  dreamer, 

Whom  dangers  daunt. 

For  me  no  delicate  life-lover 

Will  dare  to  bow ; 
My  pyramid  of  bloom  shall  cover 

No  craven's  brow. 

But  should  some  youth  on  whom  the  splen- 
dor 

Of  hope  is  high, 
Who  loves  with  love  superb  and  tender 

What  cannot  die, 

Pass  by  this  dark  and  awful  dwelling, 

He  shall  not  shrink 

From  slippery  rock  or  sick  waves  swell-= 
ing 

To  the  black  brink ; 

But  stoop  and  pluck  the  song  I  utter 

Of  death  and  joy  : 
Yea,  my  free  plume  of  snow  shall  flutter 

To  greet  the  boy. 

VENICE 

VENICE,  thou  Siren  of  sea-cities,  wrought 
By  mirage,  built  on  water,  stair  o'er  stair, 
Of  sunbeams  and  cloud-shadows,  phantom- 
fair, 

With  naught  of  earth  to  mar  thy  sea-born 
thought ! 


JOHN   ADDINGTON   SYMONDS 


275 


Thou  floating  film  upon  the  wonder-fraught 

Ocean  of  dreams  !  Thou  hast  no  dream  so 
rare 

As  are  thy  sons  and  daughters,  they  who 
wear 

Foam-flakes  of  charm  from  thine  enchant- 
ment caught ! 

O  dark  brown  eyes  !  O  tangles  of  dark  hair  ! 

O  heaven-blue  eyes,  blonde  tresses  where 
the  breeze 

Plays  over  sun-burn'd  cheeks  in  sea-blown 
air  ! 

Firm  limbs  of  moulded  bronze  !  frank 
debonair 

Smiles  of  cleep-bosom'd  women !  Loves 
that  seize 

Man's  soul,  and  waft  her  on  storm-melo- 
dies ! 

THYSELF 

GIVE  me  thyself  !     It  were  *s  well  to  cry  : 
Give  me  the  splendor  of  this  night  of  June  ! 
Give  me  yon  star  upon  the  swart  lagoon 
Trembling  in  uuapproach'd  serenity  ! 
Our  gondola,  that  four  swift  oarsmen  ply, 
Shoots    from  the  darkening    Lido's  sandy 

dune, 
Splits  with  her  steel   the  mirrors   of   the 

moon, 

Shivers  the  star-beams  that  before  us  fly. 
Give  me  thyself  !     This  prayer  is  even  a 

knell, 

Warning  me  back  to  mine  own  impotence. 
Self  gives  not  self;  and  souls  sequester'd 

dwell 

In  the  dark  fortalice  of  thought  and  sense, 
Where,  though  life's  prisoners  call  from 

celt  to  cell, 
Each  pines  alone  and  may  not  issue  thence. 

THE   SONNET 

i 

THE  Sonnet  is  a  fruit  which  long  hath  slept 
And  ripen'd  on  life's  sun-warm'd  orchard- 
wall  ; 

A  gem  which,  hardening  in  the  mystical 
Mine  of  man's  heart,  to  quenchless  flame 

hath  leapt ; 

A  medal  of  pure  gold  art's  nympholept 
Stamps  with  love's  lips  and  brows  imperial ; 
A  branch   from  memory's  briar,  whereon 

the  fall 
Of  thought-eternalizing  tears  hath  wept : 


A  star  that  shoots  athwart  star-steadfast 
heaven  ; 

A  fluttering  aigrette  of  toss'd  passion's 
brine  ; 

A  leaf  from  youth's  immortal  missal  torn  ; 

A  bark  across  dark  seas  of  anguish  driven ; 

A  feather  dropp'd  from  breast-wings  aqui- 
line ; 

A  silvery  dream  shunning  red  lips  of  morn 


There  is  no  mood,  no  heart-throb  fugitive, 
Xo  spark  from  man's  imperishable  mind, 
No  moment  of   man's  will,  that   may  not 

find 
Form  in  the  Sonnet;   and  thenceforward 

live 

A  potent  elf,  by  art's  imperative 
Magic  to  crystal  spheres  of  song  confin'd  : 
As   in   the    moonstone's    orb    pent   spirits 

wind 
'Mid  dungeon  depths  day-beams  they  take 

and  give. 
Spare  thou  no  pains  ;  carve  thought's  pure 

diamond 
With  fourteen  facets,   scattering  fire  and 

light  :  — 

Uncut,  what  jewel  burns  but  darkly  bright  ? 
And  Prospero  vainly  waves  his  runic  wand, 
If  spurning  art's  inexorable  law 
In  Ariel's  prison-sphere  he  leave  one  flaw. 

Ill 

The  Sonnet  is  a  world,  where  feelings  caught 
In  webs  of  phantasy,  combine  and  fuse 
Their  kindred  elements  'neath  mystic  dews 
Shed  from  the  ether  round  man's  dwelling 

wrought ; 
Distilling    heart's  content,    star-fragrance 

fraught 

With  influences  from  the  breathing  fires 
Of  heaven  in  everlasting  endless  gyres 
Enfolding  and  encircling  orbs  of  thought. 
Our  Sonnet's  world  hath   two  fix'd  hemi- 
spheres : 
This,  where   the    sun   with   fierce  strength 

masculine 
Pours  his  keen  rays  and  bids  the  noonday 

shine ; 

That,  where  the  moon  and  the  stars,  con- 
cordant powers, 

Shed  milder  rays,  and  daylight  disappears 
In  low  melodious  music  of  still  hours. 


276 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


A  MUSIC   LESSON 

FINGERS  on  the  holes,  Johnny, 

Fairly  in  a  raw  : 
Lift  this  and  then  that, 

And  blaw,  blaw,  blaw  ! 
That 's  hoo  to  play,  Johnny, 

On  the  pipes  sae  shrill : 
Never  was  the  piper  yet 

But  needit  a'  his  skill. 

And  Jang  and  sair  he  tried  it,  tae, 

Afore  he  wan  the  knack 
O'  making  bag  and  pipe  gie 

His  verra  yearnin's  back. 
The  echo  tae  his  heart-strings 

Frae  sic  a  thing  to  come  ; 
Oh,  is  it  no  a  wonder  — 

Like  a  voice  frae  out  the  dumb  ? 

Tak'  teutie,  noo,  my  Johnny  lad, 

Ye  maunna  hurry  thro', 
Tak'  time  and  try  it  ower  again  — 

Sic  a  blast  ye  blew  ! 
It 's  no  alane  by  blawing  strang, 

But  eke  by  blawing  true, 
That  ye  can  mak'  the  music 

To  thrill  folk  thro'  and  thro'. 

The  walk  folk  and  the  learnin', 

'T  is  them  that  mak's  the  din  ; 
But  for  the  finish'd  pipers 

They  count  it  as  a  sin  : 
And  maybe  it 's  the  verra  same 

A'  the  warld  thro', 
The  learners  are  the  verra  ones 

That  mak'  the  most  ado  ! 

Ye  ken  the  Southrons  taunt  us  — 

I  sayna  they  're,  unfair  — 
Aboot  oor  squallin'  music, 

And  their  taunts  hae  hurt  me  sair  ; 
But  if  they  'd  heard  a  piper  true 

At  nicht  come  ower  the  hill, 
Playin'  up  a  pibroch 

Upon  the  wind  sae  still  : 

Risin'  noo,  and  fallin'  noo, 

And  floatin'  on  the  air, 
The  sounds  come  saftly  on  ye 

Amaist  ere  ye  're  aware, 


And  wind  themsels  aboot  the  heart, 

That  hasna  yet  forgot 
The  witchery  o'  love  and  joy 

Within  some  lanely  spot : 

I  'm  sure  they  wadna  taunt  us  sae, 

Nor  say  the  bagpipe  's  wild, 
Nor  speak  o'  screachin'  noises 

Enuch  to  deave  a  child  : 
They  would  say  the  bagpipe  only 

Is  the  voice  of  hill  and  glen  ; 
And  would  listen  to  it  sorrowing, 

Within  the  haunts  of  men. 

Fingers  on  the  holes,  Johnny, 

Fairly  in  a  raw  : 
Lift  this  and  then  that, 

And  blaw,  blaw,  blaw  ! 
That 's  hoo  to  play,  Johnny, 

On  the  pipes  sae  shrill  : 
Never  was  the  piper  yet 

But  ueedit  a'  his  skill. 

LANDOR 

LIKE  crown'd  athlete  that  in  a  race  has  run, 
And  points  his  finger  at  those  left  behind, 
And  follows  on  his  way  as  now  inclin'd, 
With  song  and  laughter  in  the  glowing  sun  ; 
And  joys  at  that  which  he  hath  joyous  done, 
And,   like   a   child,  will  wanton  with  the 

wind, 
And  pluck  the  flowers  his  radiant  brows  to 

bind  — 

Re-crown  himself  as  conscious  he  hath  won  ; 
And  still  regardless  of  his  fellow-men 
He  follows  on  his  road  intent  and  fain 
To  please  himself,  and  caring  not  to  gain 
The  world's  applause  which  he  might  seek 

in  vain  : 
A  soldier,  yet  would,  careless,  sport  and 

play 
Av4  leave  the  reckoning  for  .a  distant  day. 

SHELLEY 

THE  odor  of  a  rose  :  light  of  a  star  : 
The  essence  of  a  flame  blown  on  by  wind, 
That  lights  and  warms  all  near  it,  bland 

and  kind, 
But  aye  consumes  itself,  as  though  at  war 


JAPP  —  MONKHOUSE 


277 


With  what  supports  and  feeds  it  ;  —  from 

afar 

It  draws  its  life,  but  evermore  inclin'd 
To  leap  into  the  flame  that   makes   men 

blind 

Who  seek  the  secret  of  all  things  that  are. 
Such  wert  thou,  Shelley,  bound  for  airiest 

goal: 

Interpreter  of  quintessential  things  : 
Who  mounted  ever  Tip  on  eagle-wings 
Of   phantasy  :    had  aim'd  at   heaven   and 

stole 

Promethean  fire  for  men  to  be  as  gods, 
And  dwell  in  free,  aerial  abodes. 


MEMORIES 

MY  love  he  went  to  Burdon  Fair, 
And  of  all  the  gifts  that  he  saw  there 
Was  none  could  his  great  love  declare  ; 


So  he  brought  me  marjoram  smelling  rare  — 

Its  sweetness  filled  all  the  air.  ' 
Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 
Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette  ! 

My  love  he  sail'd  across  the  sea, 
And  all  to  make  a  home  for  me. 
Oh,  sweet  his  last  kiss  on  the  lea, 
The  pansies  pluck'd  beneath  the  tree, 
When   he   said,  "My  love,  I'll  send   for 

thee  ! " 

Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 
Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette  I 

His  mother  sought  for  me  anon  ; 

So  long  my  name  she  would  not  own. 

Ah,  gladly  would  she  now  atone, 

For  we  together  make  our  moan  ! 

She  brought  the  mignonette  I  've  sown. 
Oh,  the  days  I  dote  on  yet, 
Marjoram,  pansies,  mignonette.!  • 


SONG 

WHO  calls  me  bold  because  I  won  my  love, 

And  did  not  pine, 

And  waste  my  life  with  secret  pain,  but 
strove 

To  make  him  mine  ? 

I  us'd  no  arts  ;  't  was  Nature's  self  that 
taught 

My  eye  to  speak, 
And  bid  the  burning  blush  to  paint  unsought 

My  flashing  cheek  ; 

That  made  my  voice  to  tremble  when  I  bid 

My  love  "  Goodby," 
So  weak  that  every  other  sound  was  hid, 

Except  a  sigh. 

Oh,  was  it  wrong  to  use  the  truth  I  knew, 

That  hearts  are  mov'd, 
And  spring  warm-struck  with  life  and  love 
anew, 

By  being  lov'd  ? 

One  night  there  came  a  tear,  that,  big  and 

loth, 
Stole  'neath  my  brow. 


'T  was  thus  I  won  my  heart's  own  heart, 

and  both 
Are  happy  now. 


A  DEAD  MARCH 

PLAY  me  a  march,  low-ton'd  and  slow  — 
a  march  for  a  silent  tread, 

Fit  for  the  wandering  feet  of  one  who 
dreams  of  the  silent  dead, 

Lonely,  between  the  bones  below  and  the 
souls  that  are  overhead. 

Here  for  a  while    they  smil'd  and   sang; 

alive  in  the  interspace, 
Here  with  the  grass  beneath  the  foot,  and 

the  stars  above*  the  face, 
Now  are  their  feet  beneath  the  grass,  and 

whither  has  flown  their  grace  ? 

Who  shall  assure  us  whence  they  come,  or 

tell  us  the  way  they  go  ? 
Verily,  life  with  them  was  joy,  and,  now 

they  have  left  us,  woe, 
Once  they  were  not,  and  now  they  are  not, 

and  this  is  the  sum  we  know. 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Orderly  range  the  seasons  due,  and  orderly 

roll  the  stars. 
How  shall  we  deem  the  soldier  brave  who 

frets  of  his  wounds  and  scars  ? 
Are  we  as  senseless  brutes  that  we  should 

dash  at  the  well-seen  bars  ? 

No,  we  are  here,  with  feet  unfix'd,  but  ever 

as  if  with  lead 
Drawn  from  the  orbs  which  shine  above  to 

the  orb  on  which  we  tread, 
Down  to  the  dust  from  which  we  came  and 

with  which  we  shall  mingle  dead. 

No,  we  are  here  to  wait,  and  work,  and 

strain  our  banish'd  eyes, 
Weary  and  sick  of  soil  and  toil,  and  hungry 

and  fain  for  skies 
Far  from  the  reach  of  wingless  men,  and 

not  to  be  scal'd  with  cries. 

No,  we  are  here  to  bend  our  necks  to  the 
yoke  of  tyrant  Time, 

Welcoming  all  the  gifts  he  gives  us  —  glo- 
ries of  youth  and  prime, 

Patiently  watching  them  all  depart  as  our 
heads  grow  white  as  rime. 

Why  do  we  mourn  the  days  that  go  —  for 
the  same  sun  shines  each  day, 

Ever  a  spring  her  primrose  hath,  and  ever 
a  May  her  may  ; 

Sweet  as  the  rose  that  died  last  year  is  the 
rose  that  is  born  to-day. 

Do  we  not  too  return,  we  men,  as  ever  the 
round  earth  whirls  ? 

Never  a  head  is  dimm'd  with  gray  but  an- 
other is  sunn'd  with  curls  ; 

She  was  a  girl  and  he  was  a  boy,  but  yet 
there  are  boys  and  girls. 

Ah,  but  alas  for  the  smile  of  smiles  that 

never  but  one  face  wore  ; 
Ah,  for  the  voice  that  has  flown  away  like 

a  bird  to  an  unseen  shore  ; 
Ah,  for  the  face  —  the  flower  of  flowers  — 

that  blossoms  on  earth  no  more. 


THE  SPECTRUM 

How  many  colors  here  do  we  see  set, 
Like  rings  upon  God's  finger  ?     Some  say 
three, 


Some  four,  some  six,  some  seven.    All  agree 

To  left  of  red,  to  right  of  violet, 

Waits  darkness  deep  as  night  and  black  as 

jet. 

And  so  we  know  what  Noah  saw  we  see, 
Nor  less  nor  more  —  of  God's  emblazonry 
A  shred  —  a  sign  of  glory  known  not  yet. 
If  red  can  glide  to  yellow,  green  to  blue, 
What  joys  may  yet  await  our  wider  eyes 
When  we  rewake  upon  a  wider  shore  ! 
What  deep  pulsations,  exquisite  and  new  ! 
What  keener,  swifter  raptures  may  surprise 
Men  born  to  see  the  rainbow  and  no  more  ! 

THE  SECRET 

SHE  passes  in  her  beauty  bright 

Amongst  the  mean,  amongst  the  gay, 

And  all  are  brighter  for  the  sight, 
And  bless  her  as  she  goes  her  way. 

And  now  a  gleam  of  pity  pours, 
And  now  a  spark  of  spirit  flies, 

Uncounted,  from  the  unlock'd  stores 
Of  her  rich  lips  and  precious  eyes. 

And  all  men  look,  and  all  men  smile, 
But  no  man  looks  on  her  as  I  : 

They  mark  her  for  a  little  while, 
But  I  will  watch  her  till  I  die. 

And  if  I  wonder  now  and  then 

Why  this  so  strange  a  thing  should  be  — 

That  she  be  seen  by  wiser  men 
And  only  duly  lov'd  by  me  : 

I  only  wait  a  little  longer, 

And  watch  her  radiance  in  the  room  ; 
Here  making  light  a  little  stronger, 

And  there  obliterating  gloom, 

(Like  one  who,  in  a  tangled  way, 

Watches  the  broken  sun  fall  through, 

Turning  to  gold  the  faded  spray, 
And  making  diamonds  of  dew). 

Until  at  last,  as  my  heart  burns, 
She  gathers  all  her  scatter'd  light, 

And  undivided  radiance  turns 
Upon  me  like  a  sea  of  light. 

And  then  I  know  they  see  in  part 

That  which  God  lets  me  worship  whole  / 

He  gives  them  glances  of  her  heart, 
But  me,  the  sunshine  of  her  soul. 


COMPOSITE   IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


279 


ftotet  25udjjanan 


'T  WAS  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood  ; 
'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky  ; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Tho'  the  red  Moon  went  by. 

!T  was  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there  ; 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Look'd  on  it  in  despair. 

The  breath  of  the  World  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest  ; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  World's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  make  a  gentle  moan  — 
"  I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 

My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

"  I  will  bury  deep  beneath  the  soil, 

Lest  mortals  look  thereon, 
And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 

The  body  will  be  gone  \ 

"  The  stones  of  the  field  are  sharp  as  steel, 
And  hard  and  bold,  God  wot  ; 

And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 
Until  I  find  a  spot  I  " 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray, 

Rais'd  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice, 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain, 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lanthorn's  eye, 

Opeu'd  and  shut  again. 


Half  he  walk'd,  and  half  he  seem'd 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind  ; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold, 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins,  . 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool, 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back, 

And  it  was  dripping  chill, 
And  the  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill. 

A  Cross  upon  the  windy  hill, 

And  a  Cross  on  either  side, 
Three  skeletons  that  swing  thereon, 

Who  had  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering  ; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light, 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawn'd  wide  and  vast, 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shiver'd,  and  glided  past. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 

Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dar'd  not  fling  the  body  in 
For  fear  of  faces  dim, 

And  arms  were  wav'd  in  the  wild  water- 
To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turn'd  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And  the  dreadful  foam  of  the  wild  water 
Had  splash'd  the  body  red. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on 
Upon  an  open  plain, 


280 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist, 
And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on, 

All  thro'  the  Wood  of  Woe  ; 
And  the  nights  went  by  like  moaning  wind, 

And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Came  with  a  weary  face  — 
Alone,  alone,  and  all  alone, 

Alone  in  a  lonely  place  ! 

He  wander'd  east,  he  wander'd  west, 

And  heard  no  human  sound  ; 
For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  wander'd  round  and  round. 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  walk'd  the  silent  night  ; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceiv'd  a  far-off  light. 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste, 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be, 
That   came   and   went   like   a   lighthouse 
gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Crawl'd  to  the  distant  gleam  ; 

And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain  was 

blown 
Against  him  with  a  scream. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on, 

Push'd  on  by  hands  behind  ; 
And  the  days   went  by  like   black,  black 
rain, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  wind. 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow, 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  Moon  arose, 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white, 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 


The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow  ; 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there, 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table- 
head, 

And  the  lights  burn'd  bright  and  clear  — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that,"  the  Bridegroom  said, 

"  Whose  weary  feet  I  hear  ?  " 

'T  was  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answer'd  soft  and  slow, 
"  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow.  " 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat  at  the  table-head  — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without  ?  " 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'T  was  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answer'd  fierce  and  low, 
"  'T  is  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and  fro." 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand, 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  doorf 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  long  and  bright. 

The    Bridegroom    shaded    his    eyes    and 

look'd, 

And  his  face  was  bright  to  see  — 
"  What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Sup« 

per 
With  thy  body's  sins  ?  "  said  he. 

'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare  — 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN 


281 


"I  have  wander'd  many  nights  and  days  ; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere.  " 

T  was  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright  — 

"  Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night  !  " 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 
And  he  wav'd  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  wav'd  his  hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 

Before  it  touch'd  the  ground, 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

Made  sweet  sound. 

'T  was  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'1  was  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open 
door, 

And  beckon'd,  smiling  sweet  ; 
'T  was  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"  The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 

And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  pour'd  the  wine  !  " 

The  supper  wine  is  pour'd  at  last, 
The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 

Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 
And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 

SPRING   SONG   IN   THE   CITY 

WHO  remains  in  London, 

In  the  streets  with  me, 
Now  that  Spring  is  blowing 

Warm  winds  from  the  sea  ; 
Now  that  trees  grow  green  and  tall, 

Now  the  sun  shines  mellow, 
And  with  moist  primroses  all 

English  lanes  are  yellow  ? 

Little  barefoot  maiden, 

Selling  violets  blue, 
Hast  thou  ever  pictur'd 

Where  the  sweetlings  grew  ? 


Oh,  the  warm  wild  woodland  ways, 

Deep  in  dewy  grasses, 
Where  the  wind-blown  shadow  strays, 

Scented  as  it  passes  ! 

Pedlar  breathing  deeply, 

Toiling  into  town, 
With  the  dusty  highway 

You  are  dusky  brown  ; 
Hast  thou  seen  by  daisied  leas, 

And  by  rivers  flowing, 
Lilac-ringlets  which  the  breeze 

Loosens  lightly  blowing  ? 

Out  of  yonder  wagon 

Pleasant  hay-scents  float, 
He  who  drives  it  carries 

A  daisy  in  his  coat  : 
Oh,  the  English  meadows,  fair 

Far  beyond  all  praises  ! 
Freckled  orchids  everywhere 

Mid  the  snow  of  daisies  ! 

Now  in  busy  silence 

Broods  the  nightingale, 
Choosing  his  love's  dwelling 

In  a  dimpled  dale  ; 
Round  the  leafy  bower  they  raise 

Rose-trees  wild  are  springing  ; 
Underneath,  thro'  the  green  haze. 

Bounds  the  brooklet  singing. 

And  his  love  is  silent 

As  a  bird  can  be, 
For  the  red  buds  only 

Fill  the  red  rose-tree  ; 
Just  as  buds  and  blossoms  blow 

He  '11  begin  his  tune, 
When  all  is  green  and  roses  glow 

Underneath  the  moon. 

Nowhere  in  the  valleys 

Will  the  wind  be  still, 
Everything  is  waving, 

Wagging  at  his  will  : 
Blows  the  milkmaid's  kirtle  clear. 

With  her  hand  press'd  on  it  ; 
Lightly  o'er  the  hedge  so  green 

Blows  the  ploughboy's  bonnet, 

Oh,  to  be  a-roaming 

In  an  English  dell ! 
Every  nook  is  wealthy, 

All  the  world  looks  well, 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Tinted  soft  the  Heavens  glow, 

Over  Earth  and  Ocean, 
Waters  flow,  breezes  blow, 

All  is  light  and  motion  ! 

THE  WAKE   OF  TIM   O'HARA 
(SEVEN  DIALS) 

To  the  Wake  of  O'Hara 

Came  company  ; 
All  St.  Patrick's  Alley 

Was  there  to  see, 
With  the  friends  and  kinsmen 

Of  the  family. 

On  the  long  deal  table  lay  Tim  in  white, 
And  at  his  pillow  the  burning  light. 
Pale  as   himself,    with    the  tears   on    her 

cheek, 

The  mother  receiv'd  us,  too  full  to  speak  ; 
But  she  heap'd  the  fire,  and  on  the  board 
Set  the  black  bottle  with  never  a  word, 
While  the  company  gather'd,  one  and  all, 
Men  and  women,  big  and  small : 
Not  one  in  the  Alley  but  felt  a  call 
To  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

At  the  face  of  O'Hara, 
All  white  with  sleep, 
Not  one  of  the  women 

But  took  a  peep, 
And  the  wives  new-wedded 

Began  to  weep. 

The  mothers  gather'd  round  about, 
And  prais'd  the  linen  and  laying  out,  — 
For  white  as  snow  was  his  winding-sheet, 
And  all  was  peaceful,  and  clean,  and  sweet  ; 
.And  the  old  wives,    praising   the   blessed 

dead, 

Were  thronging  around  the  old  press-bed, 
Where  O'Hara's  widow,  tatter'd  and  torn, 
Held  to  her  bosom  the  babe  new-born, 
And  star'd  all  around  her,  with  eyes  for- 
lorn, 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

For  the  heart  of  O'Hara 

Was  good  as  gold, 
And  the  life  of  O'Hara 
Was  bright  and  bold, 
And  his  smile  was  precious 

To  young  and  old  ! 
Gray  as  a  guinea,  wet  or  dry, 
With  a  smiling    mouth,    and  a   twinkliug 
•eye  1 


Had  ever  an  answer  for  chaff  and  fun  ; 
Would  fight  like  a  lion,  with  any  one  ! 
Not  a  neighbor  of  any  trade 
But  knew  some    joke    that    the   boy    had 

made  ; 

Not  a  neighbor,  dull  or  bright, 
But  minded  something  —  frolic  or  fight, 
And  whisper' d  it  round  the  fire  that  nightr 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

"  To  God  be  glory 

In  death  and  life, 
He  's  taken  O'Hara 

From  trouble  and  strife  !  " 
Said  one-eyed  Biddy, 

The  apple-wife. 
"God   bless  old   Ireland  !" said    Mistress 

Hart, 

Mother  to  Mike  of  the  donkey-cart  ; 
"  God  bless  old  Ireland  till  all  be  done, 
She  never  made  wake  for  a  better  son  !  " 
And  all  join'd  chorus,  and  each  one  said 
Something  kind  of  the  boy  that  was  dead  ; 
And  the  bottle  went  round  from  lip  to  lip, 
And  the  weeping  widow,  for  fellowship, 
Took  the  glass  of  old  Biddy  and  had  a  sip, 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Then  we  drank  to  O'Hara 
With  drams  to  the  brim, 
While  the  face  of  O'Hara 

Look'd  on  so  grim, 
In  the  corpse-light  shining 

Yellow  and  dim. 

The  cup  of  liquor  went  round  again, 
And  the  talk  grew  louder  at  every  drain  ; 
Louder  the  tongue  of  the  women  grew  ! 
The  lips  of  the  boys  were  loosening  too  ! 
The  widow  her  weary  eyelids  clos'd, 
And,  soothed  by    the    drop  o'  drink,  she 

doz'd  ; 

The  mother  brighten'd  and  laugh'd  to  hear 
Of  O'Hara's  fight  with  the  grenadier, 
And  the  hearts  of  all  took  better  cheer, 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Tho"  the  face  of  O'Hara 

Look'd  on  so  wan, 
In  the  chimney-corner 

The  row  began — 
Lame  Tony  was  in  it, 

The  oyster-man  ; 
For  a   dirty   low    thief    from    the    North 

came  near, 
And  whistled  "  Boyne  Water  "  in  his  ear, 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN 


283 


And  Tony,  with  never  a  word  of  grace, 
Flung  out  his  fist  in  the  blackguard's  face  ; 
And  the  girls  and  women  scream'd  out  for 

fright, 
And  the  men  that  were  drunkest  began  to 

fight: 

Over  the  tables  and  chairs  they  threw,  — 
The  corpse-light    tumbled,  —  the    trouble 

grew,  — 

The  new-born  join'd  in  the  hullabaloo,  — 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

"  Be  still !  be  silent ! 

Ye  do  a  sin  ! 
Shame  be  his  portion 

Who  dares  begin  !  " 
'T  was  Father  O'Connor 

Just  enter'd  in  ! 

All  look'd  down,  and  the  row  was  done, 
And  sham'd  and  sorry  was  every  one  ; 
But  the  Priest  just  smil'd  quite  easy  and 

free  — 
"  Would  ye  wake  the   poor  boy  from  his 

sleep  ?  "  said  he  : 

And  he  said  a  prayer,  with  a  shining  face, 
Till  a  kind  of  brightness  fill'd  the  place  ; 
The  women  lit  up  the  dim  corpse-light, 
The  men  were  quieter  at  the  sight, 
And  the  peace  of  the  Lord  fell  on  all  that 

night 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

TWO  SONS 

I  HAVE  two  sons,  wife  — 
Two,  and  yet  the  same  ; 
One  his  wild  way  runs,  wife, 

Bringing  us  to  shame. 
The   one  is  bearded,  sunburnt,  grim,  and 

fights  across  the  sea, 

The   other  is  a  little  child  who  sits  upon 
your  knee. 

One  is  fierce  and  cold,  wife, 

As  the  wayward  deep  ; 
Him  no  arms  could  hold,  wife, 

Him  no  breast  could  keep. 
Ha  has  tried  our  hearts  for  many  a  year, 

net  broken  them  ;  for  he 
Is  still  the  sinless  little  one  that  sits  upon 
your  knee. 

One  may  fall  in  fight,  wife  — 

Is  he  not  our  son  ? 
Pray  with  all  your  might,  wife, 

For  the  wayward  one  ; 


Pray  for  the  dark,  rough  soldier,  who  fights 

across  the  sea, 
Because  you  love  the  little  shade  who  smiles 

upon  your  knee. 

One  across  the  foam,  wife, 

As  I  speak  may  fall  ; 
But  this  one  at  home,  wife, 

Cannot  die  at  all. 
They  both  are  only  one  ;  and  how  thankful 

should  we  be, 

We  cannot  lose  the  darling  son  who  sits 
upon  your  knee  ! 

ON  A  YOUNG  POETESS'S  GRAVE 

UNDER  her  gentle  seeing, 

In  her  delicate  little  hand, 
They  placed  the  Book  of  Being, 

To  read  and  understand. 

The  Book  was  mighty  and  olden, 
Yea,  worn  and  eaten  with  age  ; 

Though  the  letters  look'd  great  and  golden, 
She  could  not  read  a  page. 

The  letters  flutter'd  before  her, 

And  all  look'd  sweetly  wild  : 
Death  saw  her,  and  bent  o'er  her, 

As  she  pouted  her  lips  and  smil'd. 

And  weary  a  little  with  tracing 

The  Book,  she  look'd  aside, 
And  lightly  smiling,  and  placing 

A  Flower  in  its  leaves,  she  died. 

She  died,  but  her  sweetness  fled  not, 

As  fly  the  things  of  power,  — 
For  the  Book  wherein  she  read  not 

Is  the  sweeter  for  the  Flower. 

THE  SUMMER  POOL 

THERE  is  a  singing  in  the  summer  air, 
The  blue  and  brown  moths  flutter  o'er  the 

grass, 

The  stubble  bird  is  creaking  in  the  wheat, 
And  perch'd  upon  the  honeysuckle-hedge 
Pipes  the  green  linnet.  Oh,  the  golden 

world  ! 

The  stir  of  life  on  every  blade  of  grass, 
The  motion  and  the  joy  on  every  bough, 
The  glad  feast  everywhere,  for  things  that 

love 
The  sunshine,  and  for  things  that  love  the 

shade  ! 


284 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Aimlessly  wandering  with  weary  feet, 
Watching  the  wool-white  clouds  that  wan- 
der by, 

I  come  upon  a  lonely  place  of  shade,  — 
A  still  green  Pool,  where  with  soft  sound 

and  stir 

The  shadows  of  o'erhanging  branches  sleep, 
Save  where  they  leave  one  dreamy  space  of 

blue, 

O'er  whose  soft  stillness  ever  and  anon 
The    feathery    cirrus    blows.      Here    un- 
aware 

I  pause,  and  leaning  on  my  staff  I  add 
A  shadow  to  the  shadows  ;  and  behold  ! 
Dim  dreams  steal  down  upon  me,   with  a 

hum 

Of  little  wings,  a  murmuring  of  boughs, 
The  dusky  stir  and  motion  dwelling  here, 
Within  this  small  green  world.     O'ershad- 

ow'd 

By  dusky  greenery,  tho'  all  around 
The    sunshine    throbs    on    fields  of  wheat 

and  bean, 

Downward  I  gaze  into  the  dreamy  blue, 
And  pass  into  a  waking  sleep,  wherein 
The  green  boughs  rustle,  feathery  wreaths 

of  cloud 

Pass  softly,  piloted  by  golden  airs  : 
The    air     is     still,  —  no    birds    sing    any 

more,  — 

And  helpless  as  a  tiny  flying  thing, 
I  am  alone  in  all  the  world  with  God. 

The  wind  dies  —  not  a  leaf  stirs  —  on  the 

Pool 
The  fly  scarce  moves  ;  earth  seems  to  hold 

her  breath 

Until  her  heart  stops,  listening  silently 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  the  coming  rain  ! 

While  thus  I  pause,  it  seems  that  I  have 

gain'd 

New  eyes  to  see ;  my  brain  grows  sensitive 
Fo  trivial  things  that,  at  another  hour, 
Had  pass'd  unheeded.     Suddenly  the  air 
Shivers,    the    shadows   in  whose    midst   I 

stand 
Tremble  and  blacken  —  the  blue  eye  o'  the 

Pool 

is  clos'd  and  clouded ;  with  a  sudden  gleam 
Oiling  its  wings,  a  swallow  darteth  past, 
And    weedling   flowers   beneath  my    feet 

thrust  up 
Their  leaves,  to  feel  the  fragrant  shower. 

Oh,  hark  ! 


The  thirsty  leaves  are  troubled  into  sighs, 
And  up  above  me,  on  the  glistening  boughs, 
Patters  the  summer  rain  ! 

Into  a  nook, 

Screen'd  by  thick  foliage  of  oak  and  beech, 
I  creep  for  shelter ;  and  the  summer  shower 
Murmurs  around  me.  Oh,  the  drowsy 

sounds ! 
The  pattering  rain,  the  numerous  sigh  ci 

leaves, 
The  deep,  warm  breathing  of  the  scented 

air, 

Sink  sweet  into  my  soul  — until  at  last 
Comes  the  soft  ceasing  of  the  gentle  fall, 
And  lo  !  the  eye  of  blue  within  the  Pool 
Opens  again,  while  with  a  silvern  gleam 
Dew-diamonds    twinkle    moistly    on     the 

leaves, 

Or,  shaken  downward  by  the  summer  wind, 
Fall  melting  on  the  Pool  in  rings  of  light  ! 

WE  ARE  CHILDREN 

CHILDREN  indeed  are  we  —  children  that 

wait 

Within  a  wondrous  dwelling,  while  on  high 
Stretch  the  sad  vapors  and  the  voiceless 

sky  ; 

The  house  is  fair,  yet  all  is  desolate 
Because  our  Father  comes  not ;  clouds  of 

fate 

Sadden  above  us  — shivering  we  espy 
The  passing  rain,  the  cloud  before  the  gate, 
And  cry  to  one  another,  "  He  is  nigh  !  " 
At  early  morning,  with  a  shining  Face, 
He  left  us  innocent  and  lily-crown'd ; 
And    now   this    late  —  night    cometh    on 

apace-  — 
We   hold   each    other's    hands    and    look 

around, 
Frighted  at  our  own  shades  !     Heaven  send 

us  grace  ! 
When   He   returns,   all   will   be   sleeping 

sound. 

WHEN  WE  ARE  ALL  ASLEEP 

WHEN  He  returns,  and  finds  the  world  so 

drear, 
All  sleeping,  young   and    old,  unfair  and 

fair, 
Will  he  stoop  down  and  whisper  in  each 

ear, 
"  Awaken  !  "  or  for  pity's  sake  forbear. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN 


285 


Saying,  "  How  shall  I  meet   their   frozen 

stare 

Of  wonder,  and  their  eyes  so  full  of  fear  ? 
How  shall  I  comfort  them  in  their  despair, 
If   they  cry  out,  '  Too   late  !  let  us   sleep 

here  '  ?  " 
Perchance  He  will   not  wake    us   up,  but 

when 

Ha  sees  us  look  so  happy  in  our  rest, 
>Vill  murmur,  "  Poor  dead  women  and  dead 

men  ! 
Dire  was  their  doom,  and  weary  was  their 

quest. 

Wherefore  awake  them  into  life  again  ? 
Let  them  sleep  on  untroubled  —  it  is  best." 

THE  DREAM  OF  THE  WORLD 
WITHOUT  DEATH 

FROM    "  THE   BOOK  OF   ORM  " 

Now,  sitting   by  her  side,  worn  out  with 

weeping, 

Behold,  I  fell  to  sleep,  and  had  a  vision, 
Wherein  I  heard  a  wondrous  Voice  inton- 
ing : 

Crying  aloud,  "The  Master  on  His  throne 
Openeth  now  the  seventh  seal  of  wonder, 
And  beckoneth  back  the  angel  men  name 
Death. 

"  And  at  His  feet  the  mighty  Angel  kneel- 

eth, 
Breathing   not ;   and   the   Lord  doth  look 

upon  him, 
Saying,   'Thy   wanderings    on    earth    are 

ended.' 

"  And  lo  !  the  mighty  Shadow  sitteth  idle 
Even  at  the  silver  gates  of  heaven, 
Drowsily  looking  in  on  quiet  waters, 
And  puts  his  silence  among  men  no  longer." 


The  world  was  very  quiet.     Men  in  traffic 
Cast  looks  over  their  shoulders ;  pallid  sea- 
men 
Shiver'd  to  walk  upon  the  decks  alone  ; 

And  women  barr'd  their  doors  with  bars  of 
iron, 

In  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  at  the  sun- 
rise 

Trembled  behind  the  husbandmen  afield. 


I  could  not  see  a  kirkyard  near  or  far ; 
I  thirsted  for  a  green  grave,  and  my  vision 
Was  weary  for  the  white  gleam  of  a  tomb- 
stone. 

But  barkening  dumbly,  ever  and  anon 
I  heard  a  cry  out  of  a  human  dwelling, 
And  felt  the  cold  wind  of  a  lost  one's  going. 

One  struck  a  brother  fiercely,  and  he  fell, 
And  faded  in  a  darkness  ;  and  that  other 
Tore  his  hair,  and  was  afraid,  and   could 
not  perish. 

One  struck  his  aged  mother  on  the  mouth, 
And  she  vanish'd  with  a  gray  grief  from 

his  hearth-stone. 
One  melted  from  her  bairn,  and  on  the 

ground 

With  sweet  unconscious  eyes  the  bairn  lay 
smiling. 

And  many  made  a  weeping  among  moun- 
tains, 

And  hid  themselves  in  caverns,  and  were 
drunken. 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  beauteous  earth, 
Whose    side    roll'd    up   from   winter   into 

summer, 
Crying,  "  I  am  grievous  for  my  children." 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  hoary  ocean, 
Crying,  "  Burial  in  the  breast  of  me  were 

better, 
Yea,  burial   in   the   salt   flags   and   green 

crystals." 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  hollow  ether, 
Saying,   "The  thing  ye  curs'd  hath  been 

abolish'd  — 
Corruption  and  decay,  and  dissolution  !  " 

And  the  world  shriek'd,  and  the  summer- 
time was  bitter, 

And  men  and  women  fear'd  the  air  behind 
them  ; 

And  for  lack  of  its  green  graves  the  world 
was  hateful. 


Now  at  the  bottom  of  a  snowy  mountain 
I  came  upon  a  woman  thin  with  sorrow, 
Whose  voice  was  like  the  crying  of  a  sea- 
gull: 


286 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Saying,  "  O  Angel  of  the  Lord,  come  hither, 
And  bring  me  him  I  seek  for  on  thy  bosom, 
That  I  may  close  his  eyelids  and  embrace 
him. 

"  I  curse  tliee  that  I  cannot  look  upon  him  ! 
I  curse  thee  that  I  know  not  he  is  sleep- 
ing ! 
Yet  know  that  he  has  vanish'd  upon  God  ! 

44 1  laid  my  little  girl  upon  a  wood-bier, 
And  very  sweet  she  seein'd,  and  near  unto 

me  ; 
And  slipping  flowers  into  her  shroud  was 

comfort. 

"  I  put  my  silver  mother  in  the  darkness, 
And  kiss'd  her,  and  was   solaced   by   her 

kisses, 
And  set  a  stone,  to  mark  the  place,  above 

her. 

"And  green,  green  were  their  sleeping- 
places, 

So  green  that  it  was  pleasant  to  remem- 
ber 

That  I  and  my  tall  man  would  sleep  beside 
them. 

"  The  closing  of  dead  eyelids  is  not  dread- 
ful, 

For  comfort  comes  upon  us  when  we  close 
them, 

And  tears  fall,  and  our  sorrow  grows  famil- 
iar ; 

"  And  we  can  sit  above  them  where  they 

slumber, 

And  spin  a  dreamy  pain  into  a  sweetness, 
And  know  indeed  that  we  are  very   near 

them. 

"But  to  reach  out  empty  arms  is  surely 
dreadful, 

And  to  feel  the  hollow  empty  world  is 
awful, 

And  bitter  grows  the  silence  and  the  dis- 
tance. 

"  There  is  no  space  for  grieving  or  for  weep- 
ing ; 

No  touch,  no  cold,  no  agony  to  strive  with, 
And  nothing  but  a  horror  and  a  blankness  !  " 


Now  behold  I  saw  a  woman  in  a  mud-hut 
Raking  the  white  spent  embers    with  her 

fingers, 
And  fouling  her  bright  hair  witl   the  white 

ashes. 

Her  mouth  was  very  bitter  with  the  ashes  : 
Her  eyes  with  dust  were  blinded  ;  and  her 

sorrow 
Sobb'd  in  the  throat  of  her  like  gurgling 

water. 

And  all   around  the  voiceless   hills    were 

hoary, 
But  red  lights  scorch'd  their  edges  ;  and 

above  her 
There  was  a  soundless  trouble  of  the  vapors. 

"  Whither,  and  O  whither,"  said  the  woman, 
"  O  Spirit  of  the  Lord,  hast  thou  coiivey'd 

them, 
My  little  ones,  my  little  son  and  daughter  ? 

"  For,  lo  !  we  wander'd  forth  at  early  morn- 
ing. 

And  winds  were  blowing  round  us,  and 
their  mouths 

Blew  rose-buds  to  the  rose-buds,  and  their 
eyes 

"Look'd  violets  at  the  violets,    and  their 

hair 
Made  sunshine  in  the  sunshine,  and  their 

passing 
Left  a  pleasure  in  the  dewy  leaves  behind 

them  ; 

"  And  suddenly  my  little  son  look'd  upward 
And  his  eyes  were  dried  like  dew-drops  ; 

and  his  going 
Was  like  a  blow  of  fire  upon  my  face  j 

"  And  my  little  son  was  gone.     My  little 

daughter 
Look'd  round  me  for  him,  clinging  to  my 

vesture  ; 
But  the  Lord  had  drawn  him  from  me,  and 

I  knew  it 

"  By  the  sign   He  gives  the  stricken,  that 

the  lost  one 
Lingers  nowhere  on  the  earth,  on  the  hill 

or  valley, 
Neither  underneath  the  grasses  nor  the 

tree-roots. 


ROBERT  BUCHANAN 


287 


*  And  my  shriek  was  like  the  splitting  of  an 

ice-reef, 
And  I  sank   among  my  hair,  and  all  my 

palm 
Was  moist  and  warm  where  the  little  hand 

had  till'd  it. 

Then  I  fled  and  sought  him  wildly,  hither 

and  thither  — 
Though  I  knew  that  he  was  stricken  from 

me  wholly 
By  the  token   that   the    Spirit   gives   the 

stricken. 

"  I  sought  him  in  the  sunlight  and  the  star- 
light, 

I  sought  him  in  great  forests,  and  in  waters 
Where  I  saw  my  own  pale  image   looking 
at  me. 

"  And    I    forgot    my    little    bright-hair'd 

daughter, 
Though    her   voice  was  like  a  wild-bird's 

far  behind  me, 
Till  the  voice  ceas'd,  and  the  universe  was 

silent. 

"  And  stilly,  in  the  starlight,  came  I  back- 
ward 

To  the  forest  where  I  miss'd  him  ;  and  no 
voices 

Brake  the  stillness  as  I  stoop'd  down  in 
the  starlight, 

"  And  saw  two  little  shoes  filled  up  with 
dew, 

And  no  mark  of  little  footsteps  any  far- 
ther, 

And  knew  my  little  daughter  had  gone 
also." 


But    beasts    died  ;  yea,    the  cattle   in  the 

yoke, 
The  milk-cow  in  the  meadow,  and  the 

sheep, 
And  the  dog  upon  the  doorstep  :  and  men 

envied. 

And  birds  died  ;  yea,  the  eagle  at  the  sun- 
gate, 

The  swan  upon  the  waters,  and  the  farm- 
fowl, 

And  the  swallows  on  the  housetops  :  and 
men  envied. 


And  reptiles  ;  yea,  the  toad  upon  the  road- 
side, 

The  slimy,  speckled  snake  among  the 
grass, 

The  lizard  on  the  ruin  :  and  men  envied. 

The  dog  in  lonely  places  cried  not  over 
The    body  of    his   master ;  but    it    miss'd 

him, 
And  whin'd  into  the  air,  and  died,  and  rot 

ted. 

The  traveller's  horse  lay  swollen  in  the 
pathway, 

And  the  blue  fly  fed  upon  it ;  but  no  trav- 
eller 

Was  there  ;  nay,  not  his  footprint  on  the 
ground. 

The  cat  mew'd  in  the  midnight,  and  the 

blind 
Gave  a  rustle,  and  the  lamp  burnt  blue 

and  faint, 
And  the  father's  bed  was  empty  in  the 

morning. 

The  mother  fell  to  sleep  beside  the  cra- 
dle, 

Rocking  it,  while  she  slumber'd,  with  her 
foot, 

And  wakeu'd,  —  and  the  cradle  there  was 
empty. 

I  saw  a  two-years'  child,  and  he  was  play- 
ing; 

And  he  found  a  dead  white  bird  upon  the 
doorway, 

And  laugh'd,  and  ran  to  show  it  to  his 
mother. 

The  mother  moan'd,  and  clutch'd  him,  and 

was  bitter, 
And  flung  the  dead  white  bird  across  the 

threshold  ; 
And  another  white  bird  flitted  round  and 

round  it, 

And  utter'd  a  sharp  cry,  and  twittei'd  and 
twitter'd, 

And  lit  beside  its  dead  mate,  and  grew 
busy, 

Strewing  it  over  with  green  leaves  and  yel- 
low. 


288 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


So  far,  so  far  to  seek  for  were  the  limits 
Of   affliction;  and    men's    terror    grew   a 

homeless 
Terror,  yea,  and  a  fatal  sense  of  blankness. 

There  was  no  little  token  of  distraction, 
There  was  no  visible  presence  of  bereave- 
ment, 

Such  as  the  mourner  easeth  out  his  heart 
on. 

There  was  no  comfort  in  the  slow  farewell, 
No  gentle  shutting  of  beloved  eyes, 
Nor  beautiful  broodings  over  sleeping  fea- 
tures. 

There  were  no  kisses  on  familiar  faces, 
No    weaving   of    white    grave-clothes,    no 

last  pondering 

Over  the  still  wax  cheeks  and  folded  fin- 
gers. 

There  was  no  putting  tokens  under  pillows, 
There  was  no  dreadful  beauty  slowly  fading, 
Fading  like  moonlight  softly  into  darkness. 

There  were  no  churchyard  paths  to  walk 

on,  thinking 

How  near  the  well-beloved  ones  are  lying. 
There  were  no  sweet  green  graves  to  sit 

and  muse  on, 

Till  grief  should  grow  a  summer  medita- 
tion, 

The  shadow  of  the  passing  of  an  angel, 
And   sleeping  should  seem  easy,  and   not 
cruel. 

Nothing     but    wondrous    parting    and    a 
blankness. 


But  I  woke,  and,  lo  !  the  burthen  was  up- 
lifted, 

And  I  pray'd  within  the  chamber  where 
she  slumber'cl, 

And  my  tears  flow'd  fast  and  free,  but 
were  not  bitter. 

I  eas'd  my  heart  three  days  by  watching 

near  her, 
And  made  her  pillow  sweet  with  scent  and 

flowers, 
And  could  bear  at  last  to  put  her  iii  the 

darkness. 


And  I  heard    the    kirk-bells  ringing  very 

slowly, 
And  the  priests  were  in  their   vestments, 

and  the  earth 
Dripp'd  awful  on  the  hard  wood,  yet  I  bore 

it. 

And  I  cried,  "  O  unseen  Sender  of  Corrup 
tion, 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  wonder  of  Thy  mercy. 

Which  softeneth  the  mystery  and  the  part- 
ing : 

"  I  bless  thee  for  the  change  and  for  the 
comfort, 

The  bloomless  face,  shut  eyes,  and  waxen 
fingers,  — 

For  Sleeping,  and  for  Silence,  and  Corrup- 
tion." 

THE    FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER 

BRIGHT  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !    Daughter  of  a 

Fay! 

I  had  not  been  a  wedded  wife  a  twelve- 
month and  a  day, 
I  had  not  nurs'd  my  little    one  a  month 

upon  my  knee, 
When    down  among   the    blue-bell    banks 

rose  elfins  three  times  three, 
They  gripp'd  me  by  the  raven  hair,  I  could 

not  cry  for  fear, 
They  put  a  hempen  rope  around  my  waist 

and  dragg'd  me  here, 
They  made  me  sit  and  give  thee  suck  as 

mortal  mothers  can, 
Bright    Eyes,    Light    Eyes  !  strange    and 

weak  and  wan  ! 

Dim  Face,  Grim   Face  !    lie   ye  there   so 

still  ? 
Thy  red,  red  lips  are  at  my  breast,  and  thou 

may'st  suck  thy  fill  ; 
But  know  ye,  tho'  I  hold    thee  firm,,  and 

rock  thee  to  and  fro, 
'T  is  not  to  soothe  thee  into  sleep,  but  just 

to  still  my  woe  ? 
And  know  ye,  when  I  lean  so  calm  against 

the  wall  of  stone, 
'T  is  when  I  shut  my  eyes  and  try  to  think 

thou  art  mine  own  ? 
And  know  ye,  tho'  my  milk  be  here,  my 

heart  is  far  away, 
Dim  Face,  Grim  Face  !      Daughter   of  a 

Fay  ! 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN 


289 


Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  Daughter  to  a  King  ! 

Wrapp'd  in  bands  of  snow-white  silk  with 
jewels  glittering, 

Tiny  slippers  of  the  gold  upon  thy  feet  so 
thin, 

Silver  cradle  velvet-liu'd  for  thee  to  slum- 
ber in, 

Pygmy  pages,  crimson-hair'd,  to  serve  thee 
on  their  knees, 

To  fan  thy  face  with  ferns  and  bring  thee 
honey  bags  of  bees,  — 

L  was  but  a  peasant  lass,  my  babe  had  but 
the  milk, 

Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  raimented  in  silk  ! 

Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing  !  dumb  and  weak 

and  thin, 
Altho'  thou  ne'er  dost  utter  sigh   thon  'rt 

shadow'd  with  a  sin  ; 
Thy  minnie  scorns  to  suckle  thee,  thy  min- 

nie  is  an  elf, 
Upon  a  bed  of  rose's-leaves  she    lies  and 

fans  herself  ; 
And  though  my  heart  is  aching  so  for  one 

afar  from  me, 
I  often  look  into  thy  face  and  drop  a  tear 

for  thee, 

And  I  am  but  a  peasant  born,  a  lowly  cot- 
ter's wife, 
Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing !  sucking  at  my  life ! 

Weak  Thing,  Meek  Thing  !  take  no  blame 

from  me, 
Altho'  my  babe  may  moan  for  lack  of  what 

I  give  to  thee  ; 
For    though   thou  art    a   faery  child,  and 

though  thou  art  my  woe, 
To  feel  thee  sucking  at  my  breast  is    all 

the  bliss  I  know ; 
It  soothes  me,  tho'  afar  away  I  hear  my 

daughter  call, 
My  heart   were  broken  if  I  felt  no  little 

lips  at  all ! 
If  I  had  none  to  tend  at  all,  to  be  its  nurse 

and  slave, 
Weak    Thing,    Meek    Thing!     I    should 

shriek  and  rave  ! 

Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes !  lying  on  my  knee ! 
If    soon  I  be   not   taken   back  unto  mine 

own  conn  tree, 
To  feel  my  own  babe's  little  lips,  as  I  am 

feeling  thine, 
To  smooth  the  golden  threads  of  hair,  to 

see  the  blue  eyes  shine,  — 


I  '11  lean   my   head  against   the   wall  and 

close  my  weary  eyes, 
And  think  my  own  babe  draws   the  milk 

with  balmy  pants  and  sighs, 
And    smile    and    bless   my  little  one  and 

sweetly  pass  away, 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !   Daughter  of  a 

Fay  ! 

THE  CHURCHYARD 

How  slowly  creeps  the  hand  of  Time 

On  the  old  clock's  green-mantled  face  ! 
Yea,  slowly  as  those  ivies  climb, 

The  hours  roll  round  with  patient  pace ; 
The  drowsy  rooks  caw  on  the  tower, 

The  tame  doves  hover  round  and  round  ; 
Below,  the  slow  grass  hour  by  hour 

Makes  green  God's  sleeping-ground. 

All  moves,  but  nothing  here  is  swift ; 

The  grass  grows  deep,  the  green  boughs 

shoot ; 
From  east  to  west  the  shadows  drift  ; 

The  earth  feels  heavenward  underfoot ; 
The  slow  stream  through  the  bridge  doth 
stray 

With  water-lilies  on  its  marge, 
And  slowly,  pil'd  with  scented  hay, 

Creeps  by  the  silent  barge. 

All  stirs,  but  nothing  here  is  loud  : 

The  cushat  broods,  the  cuckoo  cries ; 
Faint,  far  up,  under  a  white  cloud, 

The  lark  trills  soft  to  earth  and  skies ; 
And  underneath  the  green  graves  rest  ; 

And  through  the  place,  with  slow  foot- 
falls, 
With  snowy  cambric  on  his  breast, 

The  old  gray  Vicar  crawls. 

And  close  at  hand,  to  see  him  come, 

Clustering  at  the  playground  gate, 
The  urchins  of  the  schoolhouse,  dumb 

And  bashful,  hang  the  head  and  wait ; 
The  little  maidens  curtsey  deep, 

The  boys  their   forelocks    touch   mean- 
while, 
The  Vicar  sees  them,  half  asleep, 

And  smiles  a  sleepy  smile. 

Slow  as  the  hand  on  the  clock's  face, 
Slow  as  the  white  cloud  in  the  sky, 

He  cometh  now  with  tottering  pace 
To  the  old  vicarage  hard  by  • 


290 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Smother'd  it  stands  in  ivy  leaves, 

Laurels  and  yews  make  dark  the  ground  ; 

The  swifts  that  build  beneath  the  eaves 
Wheel  in  still  circles  round. 

And  from  the  portal,  green  and  dark, 
He  glances  at  the  church-clock  old  — 


Gray  soul !  why  seek  his  eyes  to  mark 
The  creeping  of  that  finger  cold  ? 

He  cannot  see,  but  still  as  stone 
He  pauses,  listening  for  the  chime, 

And  hears  from  that  green  tower  intone 
The  eternal  voice  of  Time. 


A  SONG  OF  WINTER 

BARB'D  blossom  of  the  guarded  gorse, 

I  love  thee  where  I  see  thee  shine  : 
Thou  sweetener  of  our  common-ways, 
And  brightener  of  our  wintry  days. 

Flower  of  the  gorse,  the  rose  is  dead, 

Thou  art  undying,  O  be  mine  ! 
Be  mine  with  all  thy  thorns,  and  prest 
Close  on  a  heart  that  asks  not  rest. 

I  pluck  thee  and  thy  stigma  set 

Upon  my  breast  and  on  my  brow  ; 
Blow,  buds,  and  plenish  so  my  wreath 
That  none  may  know  the  wounds  beneath. 

0  crown  of  thorn  that  seem'st  of  gold, 
No  festal  coronal  art  thou  ; 

Thy  honey 'd  blossoms  are  but  hives 
That  guard  the  growth  of  winged  lives. 

1  saw  thee  in  the  time  of  flowers 
As  sunshine  spill'd  upon  the  land, 

Or  burning  b'ushes  all  ablaze 

With  sacred  fire  ;  but  went  my  ways  ; 

I  went  my  ways,  and  as  I  went 

Pluck'd  kindlier  blooms  on  either  hand  ; 
Now  of  those  blooms  so  passing  sweet 
None  lives  to  stay  my  passing  feet. 

And  still  thy  lamp  upon  the  hill 

Feeds  on  the  autumn's  dying  sigh, 
And  from  thy  midst  comes  murmuring 
A  music  sweeter  than  in  spring. 

Barb'd  blossoms  of  the  guarded  gorse, 

Be  mine  to  wear  until  I  die, 
And  mine  the  wounds  of  love  which  still 
Bear  witness  to  his  human  will. 


TO  A  MOTH  THAT  DRINKETH 
OF  THE  RIPE  OCTOBER 


A  MOTH  belated,  sun  and  zephyr-kist, 
Trembling  about  a  pale  arbutus  bell, 
Probing   to  wilderiug   depths  its    honey'd 

cell,  — 

A  noonday  thief,  a  downy  sensualist ! 
Not  vainly,  sprite,  thou   drawest  careless 

breath, 
Strikest    ambrosia    from    the    cool-cupp'd 

flowers, 
And  flutterest  through  the  soft,  uncounted 

hours, 

To  drop  at  last  in  unawaited  death  ; 
'T  is  something  to  be  glad  !  and  those  fine 

thrills, 
Which  move  thee,  to  my  lip  have  drawn 

the  smile 
Wherewith  we  look  on  joy.     Drink  !  drown 

thine  ills, 

If  ill  have  any  part  in  thee  ;  erewhile 
May  the  pent  force  —  thy  bounded  life,  set 

free, 
Fill  larger  sphere  with  equal  ecstasy. 

II 

With  what  fine  organs  art  thou  dower'ds 

frail  elf  ! 

Thy  harp  is  pitch'd  too  high  for  dull  annoy. 
Thy  life  a  love-feast,  and  a  silent  joy, 
As  mute  and  rapt  as  Passion's  silent  self. 
I  turn  from  thee,    and    see    the    swallow 

sweep 
Like  a  wing'd  will,  and  the   keen-scented 

hound 
That  snuffs  with    rapture   at   the    tainted 

ground,  — 
All  things  that  freely  course,  that  swim  01 

leap, — 


EMILY   PFEIFFER— FREDERIC    MYERS 


291 


Then,    hearing  glad-voiced  creatures   men 

call  dumb, 
I   feel   my  heart,  oft    sinking  'neath   the 

weight 

Of  Nature's  sorrow,  lighten  at  the  sum 
Of  Nature's  joy  ;  its  half-unfolded  fate 
Breathes  hope  —  for  all  but  those  beneath 

the  ban 
Of  the  inquisitor  and  tyrant,  man. 

TO  THE  HERALD  HONEYSUCKLE 

DEEP  Honeysuckle  !  in  the  silent  eve 
When  wild-rose  cups  are  clos'd,  and  when 

each  bird 

Is  sleeping  by  its  mate,  then  all  unheard 
The  dew's  soft  kiss  thy  wakeful  lips  receive. 


'T  is  then  the  sighs  that  throng  them  seem 

to  weave 

A  spell  whereby  the  drowsy  night  is  stirr'd 
To    fervid    meanings,    which     no    fullest 

word 

Of  speech  or  song  so  sweetly  could  achieve. 
Herald  of  bliss  !  whose  fragrant  trumpet 

blew 
Love's    title   to  our   hearts   ere   love  was 

known, 
'T  was   well   thy   flourish   told   a   tale    so 

true, 
Well   that   Love's   dazzling   presence  was 

foreshown  ; 

Had  his  descent  on  us  been  as  the  dew 
On   thee,   our   rarer   sense    he    had   o'er- 

thrown. 


frctieric  D&ifttam  Jpenrp 


FROM  "SAINT   PAUL" 

Lo,  as  some  bard  on  isles  of  the  Aegean 
Lovely  and  eager  when  the  earth  was 

young, 

Burning  to  hurl  his  heart  into  a  paean, 
Praise  of  the  hero  from  whose  loins  he 
sprung;  — 

He,  I  suppose,  with  such  a  care  to  carry, 
Wander'd  disconsolate  and  waited  long, 

Smiting  his  breast,  wherein  the  notes  would 

tarry, 
Chiding  the  slumber  of  the  seed  of  song  : 

Then  in  the  sudden  glory  of  a  minute 
Airy  and  excellent  the  proem  came, 

Rending  his  bosom,  for  a  god  was  in  it, 
Waking  the  seed,  for  it  had  burst  in  flame. 

So  even  I  athirst  for  his  inspiring, 

I  who  have  talk'd  with  Him  forget  again, 

Yes,  many  days  with  sobs  and  with  desiring 
Offer  to  God  a  patience  and  a  pain  ; 

Then  through  the    mid   complaint  of    my 

confession, 
Then  through  the  pang  and  passion  of 

my  prayer, 

Leaps  with  a  start  the  shock  of  his  posses- 
sion, 

Thrills  me  and  touches,  and  the  Lord  is 
there. 


Lo,  if  some  pen  should   write    upon  your 
rafter 

MENE  and  MENE  in  the  folds  of  flame, 
Think  you  could  any  memories  thereafter 

Wholly  retrace  the  couplet  as  it  came  ? 

Lo,  if  some  strange  intelligible  thunder 
Sang  to  the  earth  the  secret  of  a  star, 
Scarce  could  ye  catch,  for  terror  and  for 

wonder, 

Shreds  of  the  story  that  was  peal'd  so 
far. 

Scarcely  I  catch  the  words  of  his  reveal- 
ing* 

Hardly  I  hear  Him,  dimly  understand, 
Only  the  Power  that  is  within  me  pealing 

Lives  on  my  lips  and  beckons  to  my  hand 

Whoso  has  felt  the  Spirit  of  the  Highest 
Cannot  confound    nor    doubt    Him    nor 

deny  : 
Yea,  with  one  voice,  O  world,  though  thou 

deniest, 
Stand  thou  on  that  side,  for  on  this  am  I. 

Rather   the    earth    shall   doubt  when   her 

retrieving 
Pours  in  the  rain  and  rushes  from  the 

sod, 

Rather  than  he  for  whom  the  great  con- 
ceiving 
Stirs  in  his  soul  to  quicken  into  God. 


292 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Ay,  though  thou  then  shouldst  strike  him 

from  his  glory 
Blind    and    tormented,     madden'd    and 

alone, 
Even  on  the  cross  would  he  maintain  his 

story, 

Yes,  and  in  hell  would  whisper,  I  have 
known. 


A   SONG 

THE  pouring  music,  soft  and  strong, 
Some  God  within  her  soul  has  lit, 

Her  face  is  rosy  with  the  song 

And  her  gray  eyes  are  sweet  with  it. 

A  woman  so  with  singing  fir'd, 

Has  earth  a  lovelier  sight  than  this  ? 

Oh,  he  that  look'd  had  soon  desir'd 
Those  lips  to  fasten  with  a  kiss. 

But  let  not  him  that  race  begin 

Who  seeks  not  toward  its  utmost  goal  ; 
Give  me  an  hour  for  drinking  in 

Her  fragrant  and  her  early  soul. 

To  happier  hearts  I  leave  the  rest, 

Who  less  and  more  than  I  shall  know, 

For  me,  world-weary,  it  is  best 
To. listen  for  an  hour  and  go  : 

To  lift  her  hand,  and  press,  and  part, 
And  think  upon  her  long  and  long, 

And  bear  for  ever  in  my  heart 
The  tender  traces  of  a  song. 


ON   A    GRAVE    AT    GRINDEL- 
WALD 

HERE  let  us  leave  him  ;  for  his  shroud  the 

snow, 
For  funeral-lamps   he   has   the    planets 

seven, 

For  a  great  sign  the  icy  stair  shall  go 
Between  the  heights  to  heaven. 

One    moment     stood    he  .as    the     angels 
stand, 

High  in  the  stainless  eminence  of  air  ; 
The  next,  he  was  not,  to  his  fatherland 

Translated  unaware. 


A   LAST   APPEAL 

0  SOMEWHERE,     somewhere,     God     un« 

known, 
Exist  and  be  ! 

1  am  dying  ;  I  am  all  alone  ; 

I  must  have  thee  ! 

God  !  God  !  my  sense,  my  soul,  my  all, 

Dies  in  the  cry  :  — 
Saw'st  thou  the  faint  star  flame  and  fall  ? 

Ah  !  it  was  I. 

IMMORTALITY 

So  when  the  old  delight  is  born  anew, 
And  God  re-animates  the  early  bliss, 
Seems  it  not  all  as  one  first  trembling  kiss 
Ere  soul  knew  soul  with  whom  she  has  to 

do? 

O  nights  how  desolate,  O  days  how  few, 
O  death  in  life,  if  life  be  this,  be  this  ! 
O  weigh'd  alone  as  one  shall  win  or  miss 
The  faint  eternity  which  shines  therethro' ! 
Lo,  all  that  age  is  as  a  speck  of  sand 
Lost  on  the  long  beach  where  the  tides  are 

free, 

And  no  man  metes  it  in  his  hollow  hand 
Nor  cares  to  ponder  it,  how  small  it  be  ; 
At  ebb  it  lies  forgotten  on  the  land 
And  at  full  tide  forgotten  in  the  sea. 


A  LETTER  FROM  NEWPORT 


tpairi  K'  aOavdrovs  Kal  ay^ipus  ffj.fjt.evai  aid 
t»s  r6r'  firavTidfffl  or'  'idoves  &6pooi  eJev. 

THE  crimson  leafage  fires  the  lawn, 

The  pil'd  hydrangeas  blazing  glow  ; 
How  blue  the  vault  of  breezy  dawn 

Illumes  the  Atlantic's  crested  snow  ! 
'Twixt  sea  and  sands  how  fair  to  ride 

Through  whispering  airs  a  starlit  way, 
And  watch  those  flashing  towers  divide 

Heaven's    darkness    from    the   darkling 
bay  ! 

Ah,  friend,  how  vain  their  pedant's  part, 

Their  hurrying  toils  how  idly  spent, 
How  have  they  wrong'd  the  gentler  heart 

Which  thrills  the  awakening  continent, 
Who  have  not  learnt  on  this  bright  shore 

What  sweetness  issues  from  the  strong, 
Where  flowerless  forest,  cataract-roar, 

Have  found  a  blossom  and  a  song  ! 


FREDERIC   MYERS  — DOWDEN 


293 


Ah,  what  imperial  force  of  fate 

Links  our  one  race  in  high  emprize  ! 
Nor  aught  henceforth  can  separate 

Those  glories  mingling  as  they  rise  ; 
For  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  speech, 

At  last  have  Child  and  Mother  grown, — 
Fair  Figures  !  honoring  each  in  each 

A  beauty  kindred  with  her  own. 

Through  English  eyes  more  calmly  soft 

Looks    from   gray  deeps  the    appealing 

charm  ; 
Reddens  on  English  cheeks  more  oft 

The  rose  of  innocent  alarm  ;  — 
Our  old-world  heart  more  gravely  feels, 

Has  learnt  more   force,  more    self-con- 
trol ; 
For  us  through  sterner  music  peals 

The  full  accord  of  soul  and  soul. 

But  ah,  the  life,  the  smile  untaught, 

The  floating  presence  feathery-fair  ! 
The  eyes  and  aspect  that  have  caught 

The  brilliance  of  Columbian  air  ! 
No  oriole  through  the  forest  flits 

More  sheeny-plum'd,  more  gay  and  free  ; 
On  no  nymph's  marble  forehead  sits 

Proudlier  a  glad  virginity. 

So  once  the  Egyptian,  gravely  bold, 

Wander'd  the  Ionian  folk  among. 
Heard  from  their  high  Letoon  roll'd 

That  song  the  Delian  maidens  sung  ; 
Danced  in  his  eyes  the  dazzling  gold, 

For  with  his  voice  the  tears  had  sprung, — 
"  They  die  not,  these  !  they  wax  not  old, 

They  are  ever-living,  ever-young  ! " 

Spread  then,  great  land  !  thine  arms  afar, 

Thy  golden  harvest  westward  roll ; 
Banner  with  banner,  star  with  star, 

Ally  the  tropics  and  the  pole  ;  — 
There  glows  no  gem  than  these  more  bright 

From  ice  to  fire,  from  sea  to  sea  ; 
Blossoms  no  fairer  flower  to  light 

Through  all  thine  endless  empery. 


RENUNCIANTS 

SEEMS  not  our  breathing  light  ? 

Sound  not  our  voices  free  ? 
Bid  to  Life's  festal  bright 

No  gladder  guests  there  be. 


And  thou  come  hither,  friend  !  thou  too 

Their  kingdom  enter  as  a  boy  ; 
Fed  with  their  glorious  youth  renew 

Thy  dimm'd  prerogative  of  joy  :  — 
Come  with  small  question,  little  thought, 

Through   thy    worn    veins    what    pulse 

shall  flow, 
With  what  regrets,  what  fancies  fraught; 

Shall  silver-footed  summer  go  :  — 

If  round  one  fairest  face  shall  meet 

Those  many  dreams  of  many  fair, 
And  wandering  homage  seek  the  feet 

Of  one  sweet  queen,  and  linger  there  ; 
Or  if  strange  winds  betwixt  be  driven, 

Unvoyageable  oceans  foam, 
Nor  this  new  earth,  this  airy  heaven, 

For  thy  sad  heart  can  find  a  home. 

I  SAW,  I  SAW  THE  LOVELY 
CHILD 

I  SAW,  I  saw  the  lovely  child, 

I  watch'd  her  by  the  way, 
I  learnt  her  gestures  sweet  and  wild, 

Her  loving  eyes  and  gay. 

Her  name  ?  —  I  heard  not,  nay,  nor  care  ; 

Enough  it  was  for  me 
To  find  her  innocently  fair 

And  delicately  free. 

Oh,  cease  and  go  ere  dreams  be  done, 

Nor  trace  the  angel's  birth. 
Nor  find  the  Paradisal  one 

A  blossom  of  the  earth  ! 

Thus  is  it  with  our  subtlest  joys,  — 

How  quick  the  soul's  alarm  ! 
How  lightly  deed  or  word  destroys 

That  evanescent  charm  ! 

It  comes  unbidden,  comes  unbought, 

Unfetter'd  flees  £way ; 
His  swiftest  and  his  sweetest  thought 

Can  never  poet  say. 


SDotofcnt 


Ah  stranger,  lay  aside 
Cold  prudence  !     I  divine 

The  secret  you  would  hide, 
And  you  conjecture  mine. 


294 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


You  too  have  temperate  eyes, 
Have  put  your  heart  to  school, 

Are  prov'd.     I  recognize 
A  brother  of  the  rule. 

I  knew  it  by  your  lip, 

A  something  when  you  smil'd, 
Which  meant  "  close  scholarship, 

A  master  of  the  guild." 

Well,  and  how  good  is  life  ; 

Good  to  be  born,  have  breath, 
The  calms  good,  and  the  strife. 

Good  life,  and  perfect  death. 

Come,  for  the  dancers  wheel, 
Join  we  the  pleasant  din,  — 

Comrade,  it  serves  to  feel 
The  sackcloth  next  the  skin. 


LEONARDO'S   "MONNA   LISA" 

MAKE  thyself  known,  Sibyl,  or  let  despair 
Of  knowing  thee  be  absolute  :  I  wait 
Hour-long  and  waste  a  soul.  What  word  of 

fate 
Hides  'twixt  the  lips  which  smile  and  still 

forbear  ? 

Secret  perfection  !  Mystery  too  fair  ! 
Tangle  the  sense  no  more,  lest  I  should  hate 
The  delicate  tyranny,  the  inviolate 
Poise  of  thy  folded  hands,  the  fallen  hair. 


Nay,  nay, —  I  wrong  thee  with  rough  words; 

still  be 

Serene,  victorious,  inaccessible  ; 
Still  smile  but  speak  not  ;  lightest  irony 
Lurk  ever  'neath  thy  eyelids'  shadow  ;  still 
O'ertop  our  knowledge  ;  Sphinx  of  Italy, 
Allure  us  and  reject  us  at  thy  will ! 


TWO    INFINITIES 

A  LONELY  way,  and  as  I  went  my  eyes 

Could  not  unfasten  from  the  Spring's 
sweet  things, 

Lush-sprouted  grass,  and  all  that  climbs 
and  clings 

In  loose,  deep  hedges,  where  the  primrose 
lies 

In  her  own  fairness,  buried  blooms  surprise 

The  plunderer  bee  and  stop  his  murmur- 
ings, 

And  the  glad  flutter  of  a  finch's  wings 

Outstartle  small  blue-speckled  butterflies. 

Blissfully  did  one  speedwell  plot  beguile 

My  whole  heart  long  ;  I  lov'd  each  sepa- 
rate flower, 

Kneeling.  I  look'd  up  suddenly  — Dear 
God! 

There  stretch'd  the  shining  plain  for  many 
a  mile, 

The  mountains  rose  with  what  invincible 


power 


And  how  the  sky  was  fathomless  and  broad ! 


FIRST   OR   LAST? 

A    WIFE    TO    HER    HUSBAND 

MY  life  ebbs  from  me  —  I  must  die. 
Must  die  —  it  has  a  ghostly  sound, 
A  far-off  thunder  drawing  nigh, 
An  echo  as  from  underground. 
Yes,  I  must  die  who  fain  would  live  ; 
You  cannot  give  me  life  —  alas  ! 
Dear  Love  of  mine,  you  can  but  give 
One  latest  kiss  before  I  pass. 

Dear,  we  have  had  otir  summer  bliss, 
Kisses  on  cheek,  and  lip,  and  brow, 
But  soul  to  soul,  as  now  we  kiss, 
I  think  we  never  kiss'd  till  now. 


Fclep 

Give  both  your  hands,  and  let  the  earth 
Roll  onward  —  let  what  will  befall. 
This  is  an  hour  of  wondrous  birth, 
And  can  it  be  the  end  of  all  ? 

Ah,  your  sad  face  !     I  know  you  think 
(Clasp  me,  O  love,  your  faith  is  mine, 
Only  my  weakness  made  me  shrink) 
That  I  am  standing  on  the  brink 
Of  night  where  never  dawn  will  shine.. 
Of  slumber  whence  I  shall  not  wake, 
Of  darkness  where  no  life  will  grope  ; 
I  know  your  hopeless  creed,  and  take 
My  part  therein  for  your  dear  sake,  — 
We  stand  asunder  if  I  hope. 


MARGARET  VELEY  — LADY   CURRIE 


295 


And  yet  I  dream'd  of  a  fair  land 
Where  you  and  I  were  met  at  last, 
And  face  to  face,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Smil'd  at  the  sorrow  overpast. 
The  eastern  sky  was  touch'd  with  fire, 
In  the  dim  woodlands  cooed  the  dove, 
Earth  waited,  tense  with  strong  desire, 
For  day  —  your  coming,  O  my  love  ! 
The  breeze  awoke  to  breathe  your  name, 
And  through  the  leafy  maze  I  came 
With  feet  that  could  not  turn  aside, 
With  eyes  that  would  not  be  denied  — 
My  lips,  my  heart  a  rosy  flame, 
Because  you  kiss'd  me  ere  I  died. 
Death  could  but  part  us  for  a  while  ; 
Beyond  the  boundary  of  years 
We  met  again  —  oh,  do  not  smile 
That  tender  smile,  more  sad  than  tears  ! 

Forget  my  vision  sweet  and  vain, 
Your  faith  is  mine  —  your  faith  is  best ; 
Let  others  count  the  joys  they  gain, 
I  am  a  thousand  times  more  blest. 
They  can  but  give  a  scanty  dole 
Out  of  a  life  made  safe  in  heaven, 
While  I  am  sovereign  o'er  the  whole, 
I  can  give  all  —  and  all  is  given  ! 
Faith  such  as  ours  defies  the  grave, 
Nor  needs  a  dream  of  bliss  above  — 
Shall  not  this  moment  make  me  brave  ? 
O  aloe-flower  of  perfect  love  ! 


What  though  the  end  of  all  be  come, 
The  latest  hour,  the  latest  breath, 
This  is  life's  triumph,  and  its  sum, 
The  aloe-flower  of  love  and  death  ! 

And  yet  your  kisses  wake  a  life 

That  throbs  in  anguish  through  my  heart, 

Leads  up  to  wage  despairing  strife, 

And  shudders,  loathing  to  depart. 

Can  such  desire  be  born  in  vain, 

Crush'd  by  inevitable  doom  ? 

While  you  let  live  can  Love  be  slain  ? 

Can  Love  lie  dead  within  my  tomb  ? 

And  when  you  die  —  that  hopeless  day 

When  darkness  comes  and  utmost  need, 

And  I  am  dead  and  cold,  you  say, 

Will    Death    have    power    to    hold    his 

prey  ? 

Shall  I  not  know  ?    Shall  I  not  heed  ? 
When  your  last  sun,  with  waning  light, 
Below  the  sad  horizon  dips, 
Shall  I  not  rush  from  out  the  night 
To  die  once  more  upon  your  lips  ? 

Ah,   the   black  moment  comes  !     Draw 

nigh, 

Stoop  down,  O  Love,  and  hold  me  fast. 
O  empty  earth  !     O  empty  sky  ! 
There  is  no  answer,  though  I  die 
Breathing  my  soul  out  in  the  cry, 
Is  it  the  first  kiss  —  or  the  last  ? 


Ciirric 


("VIOLET  FANE") 


A  MAY  SONG 


A  LITTLE  while  my  love  and  I, 
Before  the  mowing  of  the  hay, 

Twin'd  daisy-chains  and  cowslip-balls, 

And  caroll'd  glees  and  madrigals, 
Before  the  hay,  beneath  the  may, 

My  love  (who  lov'd  me  then)  and  I. 

For  long  years  now  my  love  and  I 
Tread  sever'd  paths  to  varied  ends  ; 

We  sometimes  meet,  and  sometimes  say 

The  trivial  things  of  every  day, 

And  meet  as  comrades,  meet  as  friends, 

My  love  (who  lov'd  me  once)  and  I. 

But  never  more  my  love  and  I 
Will  waader  forth,  as  once,  together, 


Or  sing  the  songs  we  us'd  to  sing 

In  spring-time,  in  the  cloudless  weather;1 

Some  chord  is  mute  that  us'd  to  ring, 
Some  word  forgot  we  us'd  to  say 
Amongst  the  may,  before  the  hay. 

My  love  (who  loves  me  not)  and  I 


A  FOREBODING 

I  DO  not  dread  an  alter'd  heart, 
Or  that  long  line  of  land  or  sea 
Should  separate  my  love  from  me, 
I  dread  that  drifting  slow  apart  — 
All  unresisted,  unrestrain'd  — 
Which   cornea  to  some  when  they  hare 

gain'd 
The  dear  endeavor  of  their  soul. 


296 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


As  two  light  skiffs  that  sail'd  together, 
Through    days    and    nights    of     tranquil 

weather, 

Adown  some  inland  stream,  might  be 
Drifted  asunder,  each  from  each  ; 
When,  floating  with  the  tide,  they  reach 

The  hop'd-for  end,  the  promis'd  goal, 
The  sudden  glory  of  the  sea. 


IN  GREEN  OLD  GARDENS 

IN  green  old  gardens,  hidden  away 

From  sight  of  revel  and  sound  of  strife, 
Where  the  bird  may  sing  out  his  soul 

ere  he  dies, 

Nor  fears  for  the  night,  so  he  lives  his  day  ; 
Where  the  high  red  walls,  which  are  grow- 
ing gray 

With  their  lichen  and  moss  embroi- 
deries, 

Seem  sadly  and  sternly  to  shut  out  Life, 
Because  it  is  often  as  sad  as  they  ; 

Where  even  the  bee  has  time  to  glide 
(Gathering  gayly  his  honey'd  store) 
Right  to  the   heart  of  the   old-world 

flowers,  — 

China-asters  and  purple  stocks, 
Dahlias  and  tall  red  hollyhocks, 

Laburnums  raining  their  golden  show- 
ers, 

Columbines  prim  of  the  folded  core, 
And  lupins,  and  larkspurs,  and  "  London 
pride"; 

Where  the  heron  is  waiting  amongst   the 

reeds, 
Grown  tame  in  the   silence  that    reigns 

around, 

Broken  only,  now  and  then, 
By  shy  woodpecker  or  noisy  jay, 
By  the  far-off  watch-dog's  muffled  bay ; 
But  where  never  the  purposeless  laugh- 
ter of  men, 

Or  ihe  seething  city's  murmurous  sound 
Will  float  up  under  the  river-weeds. 

Here  may  I  live  what  life  I  please, 
Married  and  buried  out  of  sight,  — 
Married   to   pleasure,  and  buried  to 

pain,  — 

Hidden  away  amongst  scenes  like  these, 
Under  the  fans  of  the  chestnut  trees  ; 
Living  my  child-life  over  again, 


With  the  further  hope  of  a  fuller  delight, 
Blithe  as  the  birds  and  wise  as  the  bees. 

In  green  old  gardens  hidden  away 

From    sight    of    revel    and    sound    of 

strife,  — 
Here  have  I  leisure  to    breathe   and 

move, 

And  to  do  my  work  in  a  nobler  way  ; 
To  sing  my  songs,  and  to  say  my  say  ; 

To  dream  my  dreams,  and  to  love  my 

love  ; 

To  hold  my  faith,  and  to  live  my  life, 
Making  the  most  of  its  shadowy  day. 


AFTERWARDS 

I  KNOW  that   these  poor  rags  of  woman- 
hood, — 
This  oaten  pipe,  whereon  the  wild  winds 

play'd 
Making  sad   music,  —  tatter'd  and  out- 

fray'd, 
Cast  off,  play'd  out,  —  can  hold  no  more  of 

good, 

Of   love,  or  song,  or  sense  of  sun  and 
shade. 

What  homely  neighbors  elbow  me  (hard  by 
'Neath  the  black  yews)  I  know  I  shall 

not  know, 
Nor    take    account  of    changing    winds 

that  blow, 

Shifting  the  golden  arrow,  set  on  high 
On  the  gray  spire,  nor  mark  who  come 
and  go.. 

Yet  would  I  lie  in  some  familiar  place, 
Nor    share   my   rest   with    uncongenial 

dead,  — 
Somewhere,  maybe,  where  friendly  feet 

will  tread,  — 

As  if  from  out  some  little  chink  of  space 
Mine  eyes  might  see  them  tripping  over- 
head. 

And  though  too  sweet  to  deck  a  sepulchre 
Seem  twinkling  daisy-buds,  and  meadow 

grass ; 
And  so,  would  more  than  serve  me,  lest 

they  pass 
Who  fain  would  know  what  woman  rested 

there, 
What  her  demeanor,  or  her  story  was, — 


LADY  CURRIE  — WADDINGTON—  ERNEST   MYERS 


297 


For  these  I  would   that   on   a   sculptur'd 

stone 

(Fenced  round  with  ironwork  to  keep  se- 
cure) 


Should  sleep  a  form  with  folded  palms 

demure, 

In  aspect  like  the  dreamer  that  was  gone, 
With  these  words  carv'd,  "Ihop'd,  but  was 

not  sure." 


THE   INN    OF  CARE 

AT  Nebra,  by  the  Unstrut,  — 
So  travellers  declare,  — 
There  stands  an  ancient  tavern, 
It  is  the  "  Inn  of  Care." 
To  all  the  world  't  is  open  ; 
It  sets  a  goodly  fare  ; 
And  every  soul  is  welcome 
That  deigns  to  sojourn  there. 

The  landlord  with  his  helpers, 
(He  is  a  stalwart  host), 
To  please  his  guest  still  labors 
With  "  bouilli "  and  with  "  roast ;  " 
And  ho  !  he  laughs  so  roundly, 
He  laughs,  and  loves  to  boast 
That  he  who  bears  the  beaker 
May  live  to  share  the  "  toast." 

Lucus  a  non  lucendo  — 

Thus  named  might  seem  the  inn, 

So  careless  is  its  laughter, 

So  loud  its  merry  din  ; 

Yet  ere  to  doubt  its  title 

You  do,  in  sooth,  begin, 

Go,  watch  the  pallid  faces 

Approach  and  pass  within. 


To  Nebra,  by  the  Unstrut, 

May  all  the  world  repair, 

And  meet  a  hearty  welcome, 

And  share  a  goodly  fare  ; 

The  world  !  '  t  is  worn  and  weary  — 

'T  is  tir'd  of  gilt  and  glare  ; 

The  inn  !  't  is  nam'd  full  wisely, 

It  is  the  "  Inn  of  Care." 

SOUL   AND   BODY 

WHERE  wert  thou,  Soul,  ere  yet  my  body 

born 
Became  thy  dwelling-place  ?     Didst  thou 

on  earth, 

Or  in  the  clouds,  await  this  body's  birth  ? 
Or  by  what  chance  upon  that  winter's  morn 
Didst  thou  this  body  find,  a  babe  forlorn  ? 
Didst  thou  in  sorrow  enter,  or  in  mirth  ? 
Or  for  a  jest,  perchance,  to  try  its  worth 
Thou  tookest  flesh,  ne'er  from  it  to  be  torn  ? 
Nay,  Soul,  I  will  not  mock  thee  ;  well  I 

know 

Thou  wert  not  on  the  earth,  nor  in  the  sky  ; 
For  with  my  body's  growth  thou  too  didst 

grow  ; 

But  with  that  body's  death  wilt  thou  too  die  ? 
I  know  not,  and  thou  canst  not  tell  me,  so 
In  doubt  we  '11  go  together,  —  thou  and  I. 


GORDON 
i 


ON  through  the  Libyan  sand 

Rolls  ever,  mile  on  mile, 

League  on  long  league,  cleaving  the  rain- 
less land, 

Fed  by  no  friendly  wave,  the  immemorial 
Nile. 


II 

Down  through  the  cloudless  air, 
Undimm'd,  from  heaven's  sheer  height, 
Bend  their  inscrutable  gaze,  austere  and 

bare, 

In  long-proceeding  pomp,  the  stars  of  Lib- 
yan night. 


298 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


in 

Beneath   the   stars,   beside  the  unpausiiig 

flood, 

Earth  trembles  at  the  wandering  lion's  roar  ; 
Trembles  again,  when  in  blind    thirst  of 

blood 
Sweep  the  wild  tribes  along  the  startled 

shore. 

IV 

They  sweep   and  surge  and  struggle,  and 

are  gone : 

The  mournful  desert  silence  reigns  again, 
The  immemorial  River  rolleth  on, 
The   order'd   stars   gaze   blank   upon    the 

plain. 

v 

O  awful  Presence  of  the  lonely  Nile, 

O  awful  Presence  of  the  starry  sky, 

Lo,  in  this  little  while 

Unto  the  mind's  true-seeing  inward  eye 

There  hath  arisen  there 

Another  haunting  Presence  as  sublime, 

As  great,  as  sternly  fair  ; 

Yea,  rather  fairer  far 

Than  stream,  or  sky,  or  star, 

To  live  while  star  shall  burn  or  river  roll, 

Unmarr'd  by  marring  Time, 

The  crown  of  Being,  a  heroic  soul. 

VI 

Beyond    the   weltering    tides    of  worldly 

change 

He  saw  the  invisible  things, 
The  eternal  Forms  of  Beauty  and  of  Right ; 
Wherewith  well  pleas'd  his  spirit  wont  to 

range, 

Rapt  with  divine  delight, 
Richer  than  empires,  royaler  than  kings. 

VII 

Lover  of  children,  lord  of  fiery  fight, 

Saviour  of  empires,  servant  of  the  poor, 

Not  in  the  sordid  scales  of  earth,  unsure, 

Deprav'd,  adulterate, 

He  measur'd  small  and  great, 

But  by  some  righteous  balance  wrought  in 

heaven, 

To  his  pure  hand  by  Powers  empyreal  given ; 
Therewith,  by  men  uumov'd,   as   God   he 

judged  aright. 


VIII 

As  on  the  broad  sweet-water'd  river  tost 

Falls  some  poor  grain  of  salt, 

And  melts  to  naught,  nor  leaves  embitter- 
ing trace  ; 

As  in  the  o'er-arching  vault 

With  unrepell'd  assault 

A  cloudy  climbing  vapor,  lightly  losi, 

Vanisheth  utterly  in  the  starry  space  ; 

So  from  our  thought,  when  his  enthron'd 
estate 

We  inly  contemplate, 

All  wrangling  phantoms  fade,  and  leave  us 
face  to  face. 


IX 

Dwell  in  us,  sacred  spirit,  as  in  thee 

Dwelt  the  eternal  Love,  the  eternal  Life, 

Nor  dwelt  in  only  thee  ;  not  thee  alone 

We  honor  reverently, 

But  in  thee  all  who  in  some  succoring 
strife, 

By  day  or  dark,  world-witness'd  or  un- 
known, 

Crush'd  by  the  crowd,  or  in  late  harvest 
hail'd, 

Warring  thy  war  have  triumph'd,  or  have 
fail'd. 


Nay,  but  not  only  there 

Broods  thy  great  Presence,  o'er  the  Libyan 

plain. 

It  haunts  a  kindlier  clime,  a  dearer  air, 
The  liberal  air  of  England,  thy  lov'd  home. 
Thou  through  her  sunlit  clouds  and  flying 

rain 
Breathe,  and  all  winds  that  sweep  her  island 

shore  — 

Rough  fields  of  riven  foam, 
Where  in  stern  watch  her  guardian  break- 
ers roar. 

Ay,  thron'd  with  all  her  mighty  memories, 
Where  from  her  nobler  sons  their  nurture 

draw, 

With  all  of  good  or  great 
For  aye  incorporate 
That  rears  her  race  to  faith  and  generous 

shame, 

To  high-aspiring  awe, 

To  hate  implacable  of  thick-thronging  lies, 
To  scorn  of  gold  and  gauds  and  clamorous 

fame  ; 


ERNEST   MYERS—  SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG 


299 


With  all  we  guard  most    dear   and   most 

divine, 

All  records  rank'd  with  thine, 
Here  be  thy  home,  brave  soul,  thy  undecay- 

ing  shrine. 

ETSI    OMNES,   EGO  NON 

HERE  where  under  earth  his  head 
Finds  a  last  and  lonely  bed, 
Let  him  speak  upon  the  stone  : 
Etsi  omnes,  ego  non. 

Here  he  shall  not  know  the  eyes 
Bent  upon  their  sordid  prize 
Earthward  ever,  nor  the  beat 
Of  the  hurrying  faithless  feet. 

None  to  make  him  perfect  cheer 
Join'd  him  on  his  journey  drear  ; 
Some  too  soon,  who  fell  away  ; 
Some  too  late,  who  mourn  to-day. 

Yet  while  comrades  one  by  one 
Made  denial  and  were  gone, 
Not  the  less  he  labor'd  on  : 
Etsi  omnes,  ego  non. 

Surely  his  were  heart  and  mind 
Meet  for  converse  with  his  kind, 
Light  of  genial  fancy  free, 
Grace  of  sweetest  sympathy. 

But  his  soul  had  other  scope, 
Holden  of  a  larger  hope, 


Larger  hope  and  larger  love. 
Meat  to  eat  men  knew  not  of  : 

Knew  not,  know  not  —  yet  shall  sound 
From  this  place  of  holy  ground 
Even  this  legend  thereupon, 
Etsi  omnes,  ego  non. 


"THE   SEA-MAIDS'  MUSIC" 

ONE  moment  the  boy,  as  he  wander'd  by 
night 

Where  the  far-spreading  foam  in  the  moon- 
beam was  white, 

One  moment  he  caught  on  the  breath  of 
the  breeze 

The  voice  of  the  sisters  that  sing  in  the  seas. 

One   moment,   no  more  :  though  the  boy 

linger'd  long, 
No  more  might  he  hear  of  the  mermaidens' 

song, 
But   the   pine-woods   behind   him   moan'd 

low  from  the  land, 
And  the  ripple  gush'd  soft  at  his  feet  on 

the  sand. 

Yet  or  ever  they  ceas'd,  the  strange  sound 

of  their  joy 
Had  lighted  a  light  in  the  breast  of  the 

boy  : 

And  the  seeds  of  a  wonder,  a  splendor  to  be 
Had  been  breath'd  through  his  soul  from 

the  songs  of  the  sea. 


<*Bcorge 


AUTUMN  MEMORIES 

WHEN  russet  beech-leaves  drift  in  air, 

And  withering  bracken  gilds  the  ling, 
And  red  haws  brighten  hedgerows  bare, 

And  only  plaintive  robins  sing  ; 
When  autumn  whirlwinds  curl  the  sea, 

And  mountain-tops  are  cold  with  haze, 
Then  saddest  thoughts  revisit  me,  — 

I  sit  and  dream  of  the  olden  days. 

When  chestnut-leaves  lie  yellow  on  ground, 
And  brown  nuts  break  the  prickled  husk, 

And  nests  on  naked  boughs  are  found, 
And  swallows  shrill  no  more  at  dusk, 


And  folks  are  glad  in  house  to  be, 
And  up  the  flue  the  faggots  blaze, 

Then  climb  my  little  boys  my  knee 
To  hear  me  tell  of  the  olden  days. 

THE  MYSTERY 

YEAR  after  year 

The  leaf  and  the  shoot  ; 
The  babe  and  the  nestling, 

The  worm  at  the  root  ; 
The  bride  at  the  altar, 

The  corpse  on  the  bier  — 
The  Earth  and  its  story. 

Year  after  year. 


300 


COMPOSITE  IDYLLIC   SCHOOL 


Whither  are  tending, 

And  whence  d*o  they  rise, 
The  cycles  of  changes, 

The  worlds  in  their  skies, 
The  seasons  that  roll'd 

Ere  I  flash'd  from  the  gloom, 
And  will  roll  on  as  now 

When  I  'in  dust  in  the  tomb  ? 


ONE  IN  THE  INFINITE 

ROLL  on,  and  with  thy  rolling  crust 

That  round  thy  poles  thou  twirlest, 
Roll  with  thee,  Earth,  this  grain  of  dust, 

As  through  the  Vast  thou  whirlest ; 
On,  on  through  zones  of  dark  and  light 

Still  waft  me,  blind  and  reeling, 
Around  the  sun,  and  with  his  flight 

In  wilder  orbits  wheeling. 

Speed  on  through  deeps  without  a  shore, 

This  Atom  with  thee  bearing, 
Thyself  a  grain  of  dust  —  no  more  — 

'Mid  fume  of  systems  flaring. 
Ah,  what  am  I  to  thirst  for  power, 

Or  pore  on  Nature's  pages,  — 
Whirl' d  onward,  living  for  an  hour, 

And  dead  through  endless  ages  ? 


MY  GUIDE 

SHE  leads  me  on  through  storm  and  calm, 

My  glorious  Angel  girt  with  light  ; 
By  dazzling  isles  of  tropic  balm, 

By  coasts  of  ice  in  northern  night. 
Now  far  amid  the  mountain  shades 

Her  footprints  gleam  like  golden  fire, 
And  now  adown  the  leafy  glades 

I  chase  the  music  of  her  lyre. 

And  now  amid  the  tangled  pines 

That  darkly  robe  the  gorgeous  steep 

She  beckons  where  in  woven  lines 

The    sunbeams    through    the   darkness 
creep, 

And  shows  in  glimpses  far  below 
The  champaign  stretching  leagues  away, 


Fair  cities  veil'd  in  summer's  glow 
Or  sparkling  in  the  cloudless  ray. 

At  times  on  seas  with  tempest  loud, 

The  pilot  of  my  bark,  she  stands, 
And,  through  the  rifts  of  driving  cloud, 

To  tranquil  bays  of  bounteous  lands, 
The  grassy  creek,  the  bowery  shore, 

The  fringe  of  many  a  charmed  realm. 
She  steers  me  safe  by  magic  lore, 

Her  white  arm  leaning  on  the  helm. 

When,  sick  at  heart  and  worn,  mine  eyes 

I  bend  to  earth  in  long  despair, 
She  lifts  her  finger  to  the  skies, 

The  violet  deeps  of  lucid  air, 
The  myriad  myriad  orbs  that  roll 

In  endless  throngs  in  living  space, 
And  all  the  vision  of  her  soul 

Is  mirror'd  in  her  radiant  face. 


"THE  FATHER" 

IF  it  were  only  a  dream, 

Were  it  not  good  to  cherish, 
Seeing  to  lose  its  beam 

Is  in  despair  to  perish  — 
Maker  and  Father  and  Friend, 

Yearning  in  pity  to  guide  me, 
Leading  me  on  to  the  end, 

Ever  in  love  beside  me, 
Never  in  storm  or  gloom 

Deaf  to  a  cry  of  sorrow, 
Kindling  beyond  the  tomb 

Light  of  an  endless  morrow  ? 

Yea,  if  't  were  only  a  dream, 

Better  it  were  to  clasp  it, 
Brood  on  it  until  it  seem 

Real  as  the  lives  that  grasp  it. 
Helpless,  feeble,  and  lost, 

Groping  in  Wisdom's  traces, 
Whirl'd  like  a  leaf,  and  tost 

Out  in  the  awful  spaces,  — 
Oh,  how  the  heart  betray'd 

Bounds,  into  life  upleaping, 
Trusting  that  He  who  made 

Watch  over  all  is  keeping ! 


WOODS— MRS.  CRAWFORD 


301 


Chapman 


THE  SOUL  STITHY 


MY  soul,  asleep  between  its  body-throes, 
Mid  leagues  of  darkness  watch'd  a  furnace 

glare, 
And  breastless  arms  that  wrought  labori- 

ous there,  — 
Power  without  plan,  wherefrom  no  purpose 

grows,  — 

Welding  white  metal  on  a  forge  with  blows, 
Whence  stream'd  the  singing  sparks   like 

flaming  hair, 
Which   whirling  gusts  ever  abroad  would 

bear  : 

And  still  the  stithy  hammers  fell  and  rose. 
And  then  I  knew  those  sparks  were  souls 

of  men, 
And  watch'd  them  driven  like  starlets  down 

the  wind. 

A  myriad  died  and  left  no  trace  to  tell  ; 
An  hour  like  will-o'-the-wisps  some  lit  the 

fen; 

Now  one  would  leave  a  trail  of  fire  behind  : 
And  still  the  stithy-hammers  rose  and  fell. 


THE  WORLD'S  DEATH-NIGHT 

I  THINK  a  stormless  night-time  shall  ensue 
Unto    the    world,  yearning    for  hours    of 

calm : 
Not   these  the    end,  —  nor  sudden-closing 

palm 
Of    a    God's    hand   beneath   the  skies  we 

knew, 

Nor  fall  from  a  fierce  heaven  of  fiery  dew 
In  place  of  the  sweet  dewfall,  the  world's 

balm, 

Nor  swell  of  elemental  triumph-psalm 
Round  the  long-buffeted  bulk,  rent  through 

and  through. 

But  in  the  even  of  its  endless  night, 
With  shoreless  floods  of  moonlight  on  its 

breast, 

And  baths  of  healing  mist  about  its  scars, 
An  instant  sums  its  circling  years  of  flight, 
And  the  tir'd  earth  hangs   crystall'd  into 

rest, 
Girdled   with    gracious   watchings  of  the 

stars. 


BALLADISTS   AND    LYRISTS 


St^acartnep  Cratoforfc 

KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEN 


KATHLEEN  MAVOURNEEX  !  the  gray  dawn 

is  breaking, 

The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill ; 
The  lark  from  her  light  wing  the  bright 

dew  is  shaking,  — 

Kathleen  Mavourneen !  what,    slumber- 
ing still  ? 
Oh,  hast  thou  forgotten  how  soon  we  must 

sever  ? 
Oh  !  hast  thou  forgotten  this  day  we  must 

part? 

It  may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  forever  ! 
Oh,  why  art    thou  silent,  thou  voice  of 

my  heart  ? 

Oh  !  why  art  thou  silent,  Kathleen  Mavour- 
ueen  ? 


Kathleen    Mavourneen,   awake    from    thy 

slumbers  ! 
The    blue    mountains  glow  in  the  sun's 

golden  light ; 
Ah,  where  is  the  spell  that  once  hung  on 

my  numbers  ? 
Arise    in    thy  beauty,  thou  star  of    my 

night ! 
Mavourneen,    Mavourneen,  my   sad    tears 

are  falling, 
To   think   that    from    Erin  and    thee  I 

must  part  ! 

It   may  be  for  years,  and  it  may  be  for- 
ever ! 
Then  why  art  thou  silent,  thou  voice  of 

my  heart  ? 

Then  why  art   thou  silent,  Kathleen  Ma- 
vourneen  ? 


302 


BALLADISTS  AND   LYRISTS 


it  frantic  Castings? 


THE  OLD  CAVALIER 

"  FOR  our  martyr'd    Charles  I  pawn'd  my 
plate, 

For  his  son  I  spent  my  all, 
That  a  churl  might  dine,  and  drink  my  wine, 

And  preach  in  my  father's  hall  : 
That  father  died  on  Marston  Moor, 

My  son  on  Worcester  plain  ; 
But  the  king  he  turn'd  his  back  on  me 

When  he  got  his  own  again. 

"  The  other  day,  there  came,  God  wot  ! 

A  solemn,  pompous  ass, 
Who  begged  to  know  if  I  did  not  go 

To  the  sacrifice  of  Mass  : 
I  told  him  fairly  to  his  face, 

That  in  the  field  of  fight 
I  had  shouted  loud  for  Church  and  King, 

When  he  would  have  run  outright. 

"  He  talk'd  of  the  Man  of  Babylon 

With  his  rosaries  and  copes, 
As  if  a  Roundhead  wasn't  worse 

Than  half  a  hundred  Popes. 
I  don't  know  what  the  people  mean, 

With  their  horror  and  affright  ; 
All  Papists  that  I  ever  knew 

Fought  stoutly  for  the  right. 

"  I  now  am  poor  and  lonely, 

This  cloak  is  worn  and  old, 
But  yet  it  warms  my  loyal  heart, 

Through  sleet,  and  rain,  and  cold, 
When  I  call  to  mind  the  Cavaliers, 

Bold  Rupert  at  their  head, 
Bursting  through  blood  and  fire,  with  cries 

That  might  have  wak'd  the  dead. 

"  Then  spur  and  sword  was  the  battle  word, 

And  we  made  their  helmets  ring, 
Howling  like  madmen,  all  the  while, 

For  God  and  for  the  King. 
And  though  they  snuffled  psalms,  to  give 

The  Rebel-dogs  their  due, 
When  the  roaring  shot  pour'd  close  and  hot 

They  were  stalwart  men  and  true. 

"  On  the  fatal  field  of  Naseby, 

Where  Rupert  lost  the  day 
By  hanging  on  the  flying  crowd 

Like  a  lion  on  his  prey, 


I  stood  and  fought  it  out,  until, 

In  spite  of  plate  and  steel, 
The  blood  that  left  my  veins  that  day 

Flow'd  up  above  my  heel. 

"  And  certainly,  it  made  those  quail 

Who  never  quail'd  before, 
To  look  upon  the  awful  front 

Which  Cromwell's  horsemen  wore. 
I  felt  that  every  hope  was  gone, 

When  I  saw  their  squadrons  form, 
And  gather  for  the  final  charge 

Like  the  coming  of  the  storm. 

"  Oh  !  where  was  Rupert  in  that  hour 

Of  danger,  toil,  and  strife  ? 
It  would  have  been  to  all  brave  men 

Worth  a  hundred  years  of  life 
To  have  seen  that  black  and  gloomy  force, 

As  it  poured  down  in  line, 
Met  midway  by  the  Royal  horse 

And  Rupert  of  the  Rhine. 

"  All  this  is  over  now,  and  I 

Must  travel  to  the  tomb, 
Though  the  king  I  serv'd  has  got  his  own, 

In  poverty  and  gloom. 
Well,  well,  I  serv'd  him  for  himself, 

So  I  must  not  now  complain, 
But  I  often  wish  that  I  had  died 

With  my  son  on  Worcester  plain." 


THE   PRIVATE   OF   THE   BUFFS 

LAST  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs, 

He  jested,  qnaff'd,  and  swore  : 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  look'd  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewilder'd,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught,, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limo, 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame  • 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 


DOYLE—  THACKERAY 


3°3 


Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seem'd,  ' 

Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go  ; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow  ; 
The  smoke,  above  his  father's  door, 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung  : 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  so  young  ? 

Yes,  honor  calls  !  —  with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel ; 

An  English  lad  must  die. 


And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain,  mightiest  fleets,  of  iron  fram'd  s 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns  ; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untam'd. 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons. 
So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring  — 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 


JMliam 


AT   THE   CHURCH    GATE 

ALTHOUGH  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Of ttimes  I  hover ; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They  've  husli'd  the  minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell  ; 

She  's  coming,  she  's  coming  ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast 

And  hastening  thither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast  ; 
She  comes  —  she  's  here,  she  's  past ! 

May  heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly  ; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 
And  see,  through  heaven's  gate, 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 

A  STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue   Neuve  des  petits  Champs  its  name 
is  — 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields  ; 
And  there 's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splen- 
did, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case  — 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is  — 
A  sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 
That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffern. 

.    Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  ; 

All  these  you  eat  at  Terre"s  tavern, 
In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a  rich  and  savory  stew  't  is  ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should    love    good    victuals    and    good 

drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is  as  before  ; 
The  smiling,  red-cheeked  e'caillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 


3°4 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Is  Terre"  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  ; 
He  'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hop'd  you  lik'd  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter  ;  nothing 's  changed  or  older. 

"  How  's  Monsieur  Terre",  waiter,  pray  ?  " 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder; — 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day.  " 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terre*  's  run  his  race  !  " 
"  What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ?  " 

"Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,  "'s  the  waiter's   an- 
swer ; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  ddsire-t-il  ?  " 
"  Tell  me  a  good  one."     "  That  I  can,  sir  ; 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.  " 
"  So  Terre"  's  gone,  "  I  say  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner-place  ; 
"  He  's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drink- 
ing* 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse.  " 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is  — 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook  ; 
Ah  !  vanish'd  many  a  busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
When  first  I  saw  ye,  Cari  luoghi, 

I  'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 
And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

» 
Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter  !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty  — 

I  '11  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There 's  Jack  has  made  a  wondrous  mar- 
riage ; 

There  's  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet  ; 
There  's  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There  's  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette  ; 
On  James's  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagg'd  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 
I  mind  me  of  a  time  that 's  gone, 


When  here  I  'd  sit,  as  now  I  'm  sitting, 
In  this  same  place  —  but  not  alone. 

A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  look'd  fondly  up, 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smil'd  to  cheer  me. 
—  There  's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 


I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes  r 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse  ! 

THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear, 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win  ; 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin  : 
Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains  ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer  — 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains, 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes  : 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass  ; 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  ; 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass, 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 

Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 

Pledge  me  round  ;  I  bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray. 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  pass'd  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kiss'd, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  and  never  be  miss'd, 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 

Gillian 's  dead  !  God  rest  her  bier  — 
How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 

Marian 's  married  ;  but  I  sit  here, 

Alone  and  merry  at  forty  year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


305 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER 

WERTHER  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 
Such  as  words  could  never  utter  ; 

Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her  ? 
She  was  cutting  bread  aud  butter. 

Charlotte  was  a  married  lady, 
And  a  moral  man  was  Werther, 

Aud  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 
Would  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sigh'd  and  pin'd  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boil'd  and  bubbled, 

Till  he  blew  his  silly  brains  out, 
And  no  more  was  by  it  troubled. 

Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 

Like  a  well-conducted  person, 

Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 


THE  PEN  AND  THE  ALBUM 

"  I  AM  Miss  Catherine's  book "  (the  Al- 
bum speaks)  ; 

"  I  've  lain  amoug  your  tomes  these  many 
weeks  ; 

I  *m  tir'd  of  your  old  coats  and  yellow 
cheeks. 

"  Quick,  Pen  !  and  write  a  line  with  a  good 

grace  ; 

Come  !  draw  me  off  a  funny  little  face  ; 
And,  prithee,  send   me    back  to  Chesham 

Place." 


I  am  my  master's  faithful  old  Gold  Pen ; 
I  've  serv'd  him  three  long  years,  and  drawn 

since  then 
Thousands  of  funny  women  and  droll  men. 

O  Album  !  could  I  tell  you  all  his  ways 
And  thoughts,  since  I  am  his,  these  thou- 
sand days, 
Lord,  how  your  pretty  pages  I  'd  amaze  ! 

ALBUM 

His  ways  ?    his  thoughts  ?      Just  whisper 

me  a  few  ; 

Tell  me  a  curious  anecdote  or  two, 
And  write  'eui  quickly  off,  good  Mordan,  do  ! 


Since  he  my  faithful  service  did  engage 
To  follow  him  through  his  queer  pilgrimage, 
I've  drawn  and  written  many  a  line  and  page. 

Caricatures  I  scribbled  have,  and  rhymes, 
And  dinner  cards,  and  picture  pantomimes, 
And  merry  little  children's  books  at  times. 

I  Ve  writ  the  foolish  fancy  of  his  brain  ; 
The  aimless  jest  that,  striking,  hath  caus'd 

pain ; 
The  idle  word  that  he  'd  wish  back  again. 

I  v'e  help'd   him  to  pen  many  a  line    for 

bread  ; 

To  joke,  with  sorrow  aching  in  his  head ; 
And   make   your   laughter  when   his  own 

heart  bled. 

I  've  spoke  with   men  of   all   degree  and 

sort  — 

Peers  of  the  land,  and  ladies  of  the  Court  ; 
O,  but  I  've  chouicled  a  deal  of  sport. 

Feasts  that  were  ate  a  thousand  days  ago, 
Biddings  to  wine  that  long  hath  ceas'd  to 

flow, 
Gay  meetings  with  good  fellows  long   laid 

low  ; 

Summons  to  bridal,  banquet,  burial,  ball, 
Tradesman's  polite  reminders  of  his  small 
Account    due  Christmas    last  —  I  've    an- 
swer'd  all. 

Poor  Diddler's  tenth  petition  for  a  half 
Guinea  ;  Miss  Bunyau's  for  an  autograph  ; 
So  I  refuse,  accept,  lament,  or  laugh, 

Condole,  congratulate,  invite,  praise,  scoff, 
Day  after  day  still  dipping  in  my  trough, 
And  scribbling  pages  after  pages  off. 

Day  after  day  the  labor  's  to  be  done, 
And  sure  as  comes  the  postman  and  the  sun, 
The  indefatigable  ink  must  run. 


Go  back,  my  pretty  little  gilded  tome, 
To  a  fair  mistress  and  a  pleasant  home, 
Where  soft  hearts  greet  us  whensoe'er  we 


306 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Dear,  friendly  eyes,  with  constant  kindness 

lit, 

However  rude  my  verse,  or  poor  my  wit, 
Or  sad  or  gay  my  mood,  you  welcome  it. 

Kind  lady  !  till  my  last  of  lines  is  penn'd, 
My  master's  love,  grief,  laughter,  at  an  end, 
Whene'er  I  write  your  name,  may  I  write 
friend  ! 

Not  all  are  so  that  were  so  in  past  years  ; 
Voices,  familiar  once,  no  more  he  hears  ; 
Names,  often  writ,  are  blotted  out  in  tears. 

So  be  it  : — joys  will  end  and   tears  will 

dry  — 
Album  !  my  master    bids  me  wish   good- 

by; 
He  '11  send  you  to  your  mistress  presently. 

And   thus  with   thankful  heart   he    closes 

you  ; 
Blessing  the  happy  hour  when  a  friend  he 

knew 
So  gentle,  and  so  generous,  and  so  true. 

Nor  pass  the  words  as  idle  phrases  by; 

Stranger  !  I  never  writ  a  flattery, 

Nor  sign'd  the  page  that  register'd  a  lie. 


THE    MAHOGANY   TREE 

CHRISTMAS  is  here  ; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we  ; 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Shelter'd  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night  birds  are  we  ; 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing,  like  them, 
Perch'd  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  sit  — 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 


Life  is  but  short  — 
When  we  are  gone, 
Let  them  sing  on, 
Hound  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this  ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we  '11  be  ! 
Drink  every  one  ; 
Pile  up  the  coals, 
Fill  the  red  bowls, 
Bound  the  old  tree. 

Drain  we  the  cup.  — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
Mantle  it  up  ; 
Empty  it  yet  ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night, 
Round  the  old  tree. 


THE   END   OF  THE   PLAY 

THE  play  is  done  —  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell ; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And,  when  he  's  laugh'd  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that 's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends  : 
Let 's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 


THACKERAY—  DICKENS 


3°7 


And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 
As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time  ; 

On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play  ; 

Good-night  !  —  with  honest  gentle  hearts 
A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Good-night !  —  I  'd  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age  ; 
I  'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your   hopes   more   vain,   than   those   of 

men, 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I  'd  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys, 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys, 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learn'd  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  ,say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift, 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift ; 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  ! 
Why    should    your    mother,    Charles,    not 
mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ? 
We  bow  to  heaven  that  will'd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That 's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 


This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit  — 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel, 

Confessing  heaven  that  rul'd  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  kill'dj 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfill'd. 
Amen  !  —  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whiten'd  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  awful  will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize  — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays  ;) 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  ; 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead  — 

The  joyful  angels  rais'd  it  then  : 
Glory  to  heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men  ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still  : 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth. 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


THE   IVY   GREEN 

OH,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  wall  must  be  crumbled,  the  stone  de- 
cayed, 


SDicfceng 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim  ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have 

made 
Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


3°8 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no 

wings, 

And  a  staunch  old  heart  has  he. 
How  closely  he  twiueth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend  the  huge  Oak  Tree  ! 
And  slily  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
As  he  joyously  hugs  and  crawleth  round 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  grim  death  has  been, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


Whole  ages  have  fled  and  their  works  de- 
cayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade, 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant,  in  its  lonely  days, 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past  : 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  on,  where  time  has  beens 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


FROM  "  THE  SAINT'S  TRAGEDY  " 

SONG 

OH  !  that  we  two  were  Maying 

Down  the  stream  of  the  soft  spring  breeze  ; 

Like  children  with  violets  playing 

In  the  shade  of  the  whispering  trees. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  sat  dreaming 

On    the    sward    of    some    sheep  -  trimm'd 

down, 

Watching  the  white  mist  steaming 
Over  river  and  mead  and  town. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  lay  sleeping 

In  our  nest  in  the  churchyard  sod, 

With  our  limbs  at  rest  on  the  quiet  earth's 

breast, 
And  our  souls  at  home  with  God. 


CRUSADER   CHORUS 

(Men  at  Arms  pass  singing) 

THE  tomb  of  God  before  us, 

Our  fatherland  behind, 

Our  ships  shall  leap  o'er  billows  steep, 

Before  a  charmed  wind. 

Above  our  van  great  angels 

Shall  fight  along  the  sky  ; 

While  martyrs  pure  and  crowned  saints 

To  God  for  rescue  cry. 

The  red-cross  knights  and  yeomen 
Throughout  the  holy  town, 
In  faith  and  might,  on  left  and  right, 
Shall  tread  the  paynim  down. 


Till  on  the  Mount  Moriah 
The  Pope  of  Rome  shall  stand  ; 
The  Kaiser  and  the  King  of  France 
Shall  guard  him  on  each  hand. 

There  shall  he  rule  all  nations, 
With  crosier  and  with  sword  ; 
And  pour  on  all  the  heathen 
The  wrath  of  Christ  the  Lord. 


( Young  Knights  pass) 

The  rich  East  blooms  fragrant  before  us  ; 

All  Fairy-land  beckons  us  forth  ; 

We  must  follow  the  crane  in  her  flight  o'er 

the  main, 
From  the  posts  and  the  moors  of  the  North. 

Our  sires  in  the  youth  of  the  nations 
Swept  westward  through  plunder  and  blood, 
But  a  holier  quest   calls   us   back  to  the 

East, 
We  fight  for  the  kingdom  of  God. 

Then  shrink  not,  and  sigh  not,  fair  ladies, 
The  red  cross  which  flames  on  each  arm 

and  each  shield, 
Through  philter  and  spell,  and  the  black 

charms  of  hell, 
Shall  shelter  our  true  love  in  camp  and  in 

field. 

(Old  Monk  looking  after  them) 

Jerusalem,  Jerusalem  ! 

The  burying-place  of  God  ! 

Why  gay  and  bold,  in  steel  and  gold, 

O'er  the  paths  where  Christ  hath  trod  ? 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY 


309 


THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

"  O  MARY,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  !  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi' 

foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the 

land  — 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  Oh  !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But   still   the   boatmen  hear  her  call  the 

cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  J 


THE  THREE  FISHERS 

THREE   fishers  went  sailing  out   into  the 

West, 

Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each   thought    on   the  woman    who  lov'd 

him  the  best  ; 
And    the  children  stood  watching  them 

out  of  the  town  ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And    there  's    little  to  earn,  and  many  to 

keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower, 
And  they  trimm'd   the  lamps  as  the  sun 

went  down ; 
They  look'd  at  the  squall,  and  they  look'd 

at  the  shower, 
And   the    night   rack    came    rolling   up 

ragged  and  brown  I 


But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 

And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went 

down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing 

their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to 

the  town  ; 
For   men    must  work,  and   women    must 

weep, 
And    the  sooner  it 's  over,  the   sooner  to 

sleep  — 

And  good-by  to  the  bar  and  its  moan- 
ing. 

A    MYTH 

A  FLOATING,  a  floating 
Across  the  sleeping  sea, 
All  night  I  heard  a  singing  bird 
Upon  the  topmast  tree. 

"  Oh,  came  you  from  the  isles  of  Greece 
Or  from  the  banks  of  Seine  ; 
Or  off  some  tree  in  forests  free, 
Which  fringe  the  western  main  ?  " 

"  I  came  not  off  the  old  world 

Nor  yet  from  off  the  new  — 

But  I  am  one  of  the  birds  of  God 

Which  sing  the  whole  night  through.  " 

"  Oh,  sing  and  wake  the  dawning  — 
Oh,  whistle  for  the  wind  ; 
The  night  is  long,  the  current  strong, 
My  boat  it  lags  behind. " 

"  The  current  sweeps  the  old  world, 
The  current  sweeps  the  new  ; 
The  wind  will  blow,  the  dawn  will  glow,, 
Ere  thou  hast  sail'd  them  through.  " 


THE   DEAD    CHURCH 

WILD,  wild  wind,  wilt  thou  never  cease  thy 

sighing  ? 
Dark,  dark  night,  wilt   thou   never   wear 

away  ? 

Cold,  cold  church,  in  thy  death  sleep  lying, 
Thy  Lent  is  past,  thy  Passion  here,  but  uot 

thine  Easterday. 


3io 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Peace,  faint    heart,  though    the  night   be 

dark  and  sighing  ; 
Rest,  fair  corpse,  where  thy  Lord  himself 

hath  lain. 

Weep,  dear  Lord,  where  thy  bride  is  lying  ; 
Thy  tears  shall  wake  her  frozen  limbs  to 

life  and  health  again. 

ANDROMEDA    AND    THE    SEA- 
NYMPHS 

FROM  "ANDROMEDA" 

\W'D  by  her  own  rash  words  she  was 

still  :  and  her  eyes  to  the  seaward 
Look'd  for  an  answer  of  wrath  :  far  off,  in 

the  heart  of  the  darkness, 
Bright  white  mists  rose  slowly  ;  beneath 

them  the  wandering  ocean 
Glimmer'd    and     glow'd   to    the     deepest 

abyss  ;  and  the  knees  of  the  maiden 
Trembled  and  sank  in  her  fear,  as  afar,  like 

a  dawn  in  the  midnight, 
Rose  from  their  seaweed  chamber  the  choir 

of  the  mystical  sea-maids. 
Onward    toward   her  they  came,  and  her 

heart  beat  loud  at  their  coming, 
Watching  the  bliss  of  the  gods,  as  waken'd 

the  cliffs  with  their  laughter. 
Onward  they  came  in  their  joy,  and  before 

them  the  roll  of  the  surges 
Sank,  as  the  breeze  sank  dead,  into  smooth 

green  foam-fleck'd  marble, 
Aw'd  ;  and  the  crags  of  the  cliff,  and  the 

pines  of  the  mountain  were  silent. 
Onward   they    came    in   their    joy,  and 

around  them  the  lamps  of  the  sea- 
nymphs, 
Myriad   fiery   globes,  swam   panting   and 

heaving  ;  and  rainbows, 
Crimson    and    azure    and    emerald,    were 

broken  in  star-showers,  lighting 
Far  through  the  wine-dark  depths  of  the 

crystal,  the  gardens  of  ^Nereus, 
Coral  and  sea-fan  and  tangle,  the  blooms 

and  the  palms  of  the  ocean. 
Onward    they  came  in  their    joy,  more 

white  than  the  foam  which  they  scat- 

ter'd, 

Laughing  and  singing,  and  tossing  and  twin- 
ing, while  eager,  the  Tritons 
Blinded  with  kisses  their  eyes,  unreprov'd, 

and  above  them  in  worship 
Hover 'd  the  terns,  and  the  seagulls  swept 

past  them  on  silvery  pinions 


Echoing  softly  their  laughter  ;  around  them 

the  wantoning  dolphins 
Sigh'd  as  they  plunged,  full  of  love  ;  and 

the  great  sea-horses  which  bore  them 
Curv'd  up  their  crests  in  their  pride  to  the 

delicate  arms  of  the  maiden, 
Pawing  the  spray  into  gems,  till  the  fiery 

rainfall,  unharming, 
Sparkled  and  gleam'd  on  the  limbs  of  the 

nymphs,  and  the  coils  of  the  mermen. 
Onward  they  went  in  their  joy,  bath'd 

round  with  the  fiery  coolness, 
Needing  nor   sun   nor   moon,   self-lighted, 

immortal  :  but  others, 
Pitiful,  floated  in  silence  apart  ;  in  their 

bosoms  the  sea-boys, 
Slain  by  the  wrath  of  the  seas,  swept  down 

by  the  anger  of  Nereus  ; 
Hapless,  whom  never  again  on  strand  or  on 

quay  shall  their  mothers 
Welcome  with  garlands  and  vows  to  the 

temple,  but  wearily  pining 
Gaze  over  island  and  bay  for  the  sails  of 

the  sunken  ;  they  heedless 
Sleep  in  soft  bosoms  forever,  and  dream  of 

the  surge  and  the  sea-maids. 
Onward  they  pass'd  in  their  joy  ;  on  their 

brows  neither  sorrow  nor  anger  ; 
Self-sufficing,  as  gods,  never  heeding  the 

woe  of  the  maiden. 

THE  LAST  BUCCANEER 

OH,  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them 

that 's  rich  and  high  ; 
But  England  is  a  cruel  place  for  such  poor 

folks  as  I ; 
And  such  a  port  for  mariners  I  ne'er  shall 

see  again, 
As  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  beside  the 

Spanish  main. 

There  were  forty  craft  in  Aves  that  were 

both  swift  and  stout, 
All  furnish'd  well   with   small   arms  and 

cannons  round  about  ; 
And  a  thousand  men  in  Aves  made  laws  so 

fair  and  free 
To  choose  their  valiant  captains  and  obey 

them  loyally. 

Thence  we  sail'd  against  the  Spaniard  with 
his  hoards  of  plate  and  gold, 

Which  he  wrung  by  cruel  tortures  from  the 
Indian  folk  of  old  ; 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY 


Likewise  the  merchant  captains,  with  hearts 

as  hard  as  stone, 
Which  flog  men  and  keel-haul   them  and 

starve  them  to  the  bone. 

Oh,  the  palms  grew  high  in  Aves  and  fruits 

that  shone  like  gold, 
And  the  colibris   and   parrots  they    were 

gorgeous  to  behold  ; 
And  the  negro  maids  to  Aves  from  bondage 

fast  did  flee, 
To  welcome  gallant  sailors  a  sweeping  in 

from  sea. 

Oh,  sweet  it  was  in  Aves  to  hear  the  land- 
ward breeze 

A-swing  with  good  tobacco  in  a  net  between 
the  trees, 

With  a  negro  lass  to  fan  you  while  you  list- 
en'd  to  the  roar 

Of  the  breakers  on  the  reef  outside  that 
never  touched  the  shore. 

But  Scripture  saith,  an  ending  to  all  fine 

things  must  be, 
So  the  King's  ships    sail'd    on    Aves    and 

quite  put  down  were  we. 
All  day  we  fought  like  bulldogs,  but  they 

burst  the  booms  at  night  ; 
And  I  fled  in  a  piragua  sore  wounded  from 

the  fight. 

Nine  days  I  floated  starving,  and  a  negro 

lass  beside, 
Till  for  all  I  tried  to  cheer  her,  the  poor 

young  thing  she  died  ; 

But  as  I  lay  a  gasping  a  Bristol  sail  came  by, 
And  brought  me  home  to  England  here  to 

beg  until  I  die. 

And  now  I  'm  old  and    going  I  'm  sure  I 

can't  tell  where  ; 
One  comfort  is,  this  world  's  so  hard  I  can't 

be  worse  off  there  : 
If  I  might  but  be  a  sea-dove  I  'd  fly  across 

the  main, 
To  the  pleasant  Isle  of  Aves,  to  look  at  it 

once  again. 

LORRAINE 

*'  ARE  you  ready  for    your    steeple-chase, 

Lorraine,  Lorraine,  Lorree  ? 
Barum,     Barum,      Barum,      Barum, 
Barum,  Barum,  Baree. 


You  're  booked  to  ride  your  capping  race 

to-day  at  Coulterlee, 
You  're  booked  to  ride  Vindictive,  for  all  the 

world  to  see, 
To  keep  him  straight,  and  keep  him  first, 

and  win  the  run  for  me.  " 
Barum,      Barum,     Barum,      Barum, 

Barum,  Barum,  Baree. 

She  clasp'd  her  new-born  baby,  poor  Lor- 
raine, Lorraine,  Lorree, 
Barum,       Barum,      Barum,     Barum, 
Barum,  Barum,  Baree. 

"  I  cannot  ride  Vindictive,  as  any  man 
might  see, 

And  I  will  not  ride  Vindictive,  with  this 
baby  on  my  knee  ; 

He 's  kill'd  a  boy,  he  's  kill'd  a  man,  and 
why  must  he  kill  me  ?  " 

"  Unless  you  ride  Vindictive,  Lorraine, 
Lorraine,  Lorree, 

Unless  you  ride  Vindictive  to-day  at  Coul- 
terlee, 

And  land  him  safe  across  the  brook,  and 
win  the  blank  for  me, 

It 's  you  may  keep  your  baby,  for  you  '11  get 
no  keep  from  me.  " 

"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,"  said  Lor- 
raine, Lorraine,  Lorree, 

"  That  husbands  could  be  cruel,  I  have 
known  for  seasons  three  ; 

But  oh,  to  ride  Vindictive  while  a  baby  cries 
for  me, 

And  be  kill'd  across  a  fence  at  last  for  all 
the  world  to  see  !  " 

She  master'd   young   Vindictive  —  O,  the 

gallant  lass  was  she  ! 
And  kept  him  straight  and  won  the  race  as 

near  as  near  could  be  ; 
But  he  kill'd  her  at  the  brook  against  a 

pollard  willow  tree  ; 
Oh  !  he  kill'd  her  at  the  brook,  the  brute 

for  all  the  world  to  see, 
And  no  one  but  the  baby  cried  for   poor 

Lorraine,  Lorree. 

A   FAREWELL 

MY  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you  ; 
No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  gray : 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 


3I2 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be 

clever  ; 

Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day 
long: 


And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  for- 
ever 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 


Sltidaibe  3Bnne  $roctcr 


A  WOMAN'S   QUESTION 

BEFORE  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  iny  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  future  give 

Color  and  form  to  mine, 
Before  I  peril  all  for  thee,  question  thy  soul 
to-night  for  me. 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  Past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free  as  that 
which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouch'd,  unshar'd  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost,  O,  tell  me  before 
all  is  lost. 

Look  deeper  still.     If  thou  canst  feel, 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  stak'd  the  whole  ; 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow,  but  in  true 
mercy  tell  me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake  or  still  ? 
Speak  now  —  lest  at  some  future  day  my 
whole  life  wither  and  decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit  Change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone  —  but  shield 
my  heart  against  thy  own. 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day 
And  answer  to  my  claim, 


That  Fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake  — 

Not  thou  —  had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but  thou 
wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not,  —  I  dare  not  hear, 
The  words  would  come  too  late  ; 

Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 
So,  comfort  thee,  my  fate  — 

Whatever  on  iny  heart  may  fall  —  remem- 
ber, I  would  risk  it  all  ! 

A    DOUBTING   HEART 

WHERE  are  the  swallows  fled  ? 

Frozen  and  dead, 
Perchance,  upon  some  bleak   and  stormy 

shore. 

O  doubting  heart  I 
Far  over  purple  seas 
They  wait,  in  sunny  ease, 
The  balmy  southern  breeze, 
To  bring  them  to  their  northern  homes  once 


Why  must  the  flowers  die  ? 

Prison'd  they  lie 
In  the  cold  tomb,  heedless  of  tears  or  rain. 

O  doubting  heart ! 
They  only  sleep  below 
The  soft  white  ermine  snow, 
While  winter  winds  shall  blow, 
To    breathe    and    smile    upon    you    soon 
again. 

The  sun  has  hid  its  rays 
These  many  days  ; 
Will  dreary  hours  never  leave  the  earth  ? 

O  doubting  heart ! 
The  stormy  clouds  on  high 
Veil  the  same  sunny  sky, 
That  soon  (for  spring  is  nigh) 
Shall  wake  the  summer  into  golden  mirth. 

Fair  hope  is  dead,  and  light 
Is  queuch'd  in  night. 


ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER 


3*3 


What  sound  can  break  the  silence  of  de- 
spair ? 

0  doubting  heart ! 
Thy  sky  is  overcast, 
Yet  stars  shall  rise  at  last, 
Brighter  for  darkness  past, 
And  angels'  silver  voices  stir  the  air. 


THE   REQUITAL 

LOUD  roared  the  tempest, 

Fast  fell  the  sleet  ; 
A  little  Child  Angel 

Passed  down  the  street, 
With  trailing  pinions 

And  weary  feet. 

The  moon  was  hidden  ; 

No  stars  were  bright  ; 
So  she  could  not  shelter 

In  heaven  that  night, 
For  the  Angels'  ladders 

Are  rays  of  light. 

She  beat  her  wings 
At  each  window-pane, 

And  pleaded  for  shelter, 
But  all  in  vain  ;  — 

"  Listen,"  they  said, 
"  To  the  pelting  rain  !  " 

She  sobb'd,  as  the  laughter 
And  mirth  grew  higher, 

"  Give  me  rest  and  shelter 
Beside  your  fire, 

And  I  will  give  you 
Your  heart's  desire." 

The  dreamer  sat  watching 

His  embers  gleam, 
While  his  heart  was  floating 

Down  hope's  bright  stream  ; 
...  So  he  wove  her  wailing 

Into  his  dream. 

The  worker  toil'd  on, 
For  his  time  was  brief ; 

The  mourner  was  nursing 
Her  own  pale  grief ; 

They  heard  not  the  promise 
That  brought  relief. 

But  fiercer  the  tempest 
Rose  than  before, 


When  the  Angel  paus'd 
At  a  humble  door, 

And  ask'd  for  shelter 
And  help  once  more. 

A  weary  woman, 

Pale,  worn,  and  thin, 

With  the  brand  upon  her 
Of  want  and  sin, 

Heard  the  Child  Angel 
And  took  her  in  : 

Took  her  in  gently, 

And  did  her  best 
To  dry  her  pinions  ; 

And  made  her  rest 
With  tender  pity 

Upon  her  breast. 

When  the  eastern  morning 
Grew  bright  and  red, 

Up  the  first  sunbeam 
The  Angel  fled  ; 

Having  kiss'd  the  woman 
And  left  her  —  dead. 


PER   PACEM   AD    LUCEM 

I  DO  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 

A  pleasant  road  ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  Thou  wouldst  take  from: 
me 

Aught  of  its  load ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always 
spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  pleads 

Lead  me  aright  — 

Though  strength  should  falter,  and  though 
heart  should  bleed  — 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst 
shed 

Full  radiance  here ; 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 
My  way  to  see  ; 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand 
And  follow  Thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day;  but  peace  divine 
Like  quiet  night  • 


Lead  me,  O  Lord,  —  till  perfect  Day  shall 

shine, 
Through  Peace  to  Light. 


SDinal)  !3$aria  a^ulotfe  Craifc 


PHILIP,  MY  KING 

LOOK  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  king ! 

Round  whom  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities. 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 

With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  king. 

Oh  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 

When  some  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crown'd,  and  there 

Sittest  love-glorified.     Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 

For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  king. 

Up   from   thy  sweet   mouth,  —  up  to  thy 
brow, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 

The  spirit  that  here  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise    like   a  giant    and    make    men 

bow 

As  to  one  heaven-chosen  among  his  peers. 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and 

fairer, 

Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ! 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  king. 

—  A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One 
day, 

Philip,  my  king  ! 

Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  .and  cruel  and  cold  and  gray  : 


Rebels  within  thee,  and  foes  without, 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But   march 

on,  glorious, 

Martyr,  yet  monarch  !  till  angels  shout, 
As  thou  sit'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victo- 
rious, 

"  Philip,  the  king  ! " 

TOO    LATE 

"  DOWGLAS,  DOWGLAS,  TENDIR  AND  TREU  " 

COULD   ye  come    back    to    me,    Douglasv 
Douglas, 

In  the  old  likeness  that  I  knew, 
I  would  be  so  faithful,  so  loving,  Douglas, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Never  a  scornful  word  should  grieve  ye, 
I  'd  smile  on  ye  sweet  as  the  angels  do  : 

Sweet  as  your  smile  on  me  shone  ever, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Oh,  to  call  back  the  days  that  are  not ! 

My  eyes  were  blinded,  your  words  were 

few  : 
Do  you  know  the  truth  now,  up  in  heaven, 

Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  ? 

I  never  was  worthy  of  you,  Douglas  ; 

Not  half  worthy  the  like  of  you  : 
Now  all  men   beside    seem  to  me    like 
shadows  — 

I  love  you,  Douglas,  tender  and  true. 

Stretch   out  your   hand   to   me,  Douglas, 

Douglas, 

Drop  forgiveness  from  heaven  like  dew  ; 
As  I  lay  my  heart   on  your  dead   hearty 

Douglas, 
Douglas,  Douglas,  tender  and  true  1 


EARL  OF   SOUTHESK  — MORTIMER   COLLINS 


315 


of 


(SIR    JAMES    CARNEGIE) 


THE  FLITCH    OF  DUNMOW 

COME  Micky  and  Molly  and  dainty  Dolly, 
Come  Betty  and  blithesome  Bill  ; 

Ys  gossips  and  neighbors,  away  with  your 

labors ! 
Come  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 

For  there  are  Jenny  and  jovial  Joe  ; 

Jolly  and  jolly,  jolly  they  go, 
Jogging  over  the  hill. 

By  apple  and  berry,  'tis   twelve   months 
merry 

Since  Jenny  and  Joe  were  wed  ! 
And  never  a  bother  or  quarrelsome  pother 

To  trouble  the  board  or  bed. 
So  Joe  and  Jenny  are  off  to  Dunmow  : 
Happy  and  happy,  happy  they  go, 

Young  and  rosy  and  red. 

Oh,  Jenny 's  as  pretty  as  doves  in  a  ditty  ; 

And  Jenny,  her  eyes  are  black  ; 
And  Joey 's  a  fellow  as  merry  and  mellow 

As  ever  shoulder'd  a  sack. 
So  quick,  good  people,  and    come  to    the 

show  ! 
Merry  and  merry,  merry  they  go, 

Bumping  on  Dobbin's  back. 

They  've  prank'd  up  old  Dobbin  with  ribands 
and  bobbin, 

And  tether'd  his  tail  in  a  string  ! 
The  fat  flitch  of  bacon  is  not  to  be  taken 

By  many  that  wear  the  ring  ! 
•'rood  luck,  good  luck,  to  Jenny  and  Joe  ! 
Jolly  and  jolly,  jolly  they  go. 

Hark  !  how  merry  they  sing. 

"  O  merry,  merry,  merry  are  we, 
Jappy  as  birds  that  sing  in  a  tree  ! 


All  of  the  neighbors  are  merry  to-day, 
Merry  are  we  and  merry  are  they. 
O  merry  are  we  !  for  love,  you  see, 
Fetters  a  heart  and  sets  it  free. 

"  O  happy,  happy,  happy  is  life 
For  Joe  (that 's  me)  and  Jenny  my  wife  f 
All  of  the  neighbors  are  happy,  and  say  — 
'  Never  were  folk  so  happy  as  they  ! ' 

0  happy  are  we  !  for  love,  you  see, 
Fetters  a  heart  and  sets  it  free. 

"  O  jolly,  jolly,  jolly  we  go, 

1  and  my  Jenny,  and  she  and  her  Joe. 
All  of  the  neighbors  are  jolly,  and  sing  — 
'  She  is  a  queen,  and  he  is  a  king  ! ' 

O  jolly  are  we  !  for  love,  you  see, 
Fetters  a  heart  and  sets  it  free." 

NOVEMBER'S    CADENCE 

THE  bees  about  the  Linden-tree, 
When  blithely  summer  blooms  were  spring- 
ing? 

Would  hum  a  heartsome  melody, 
The  simple  baby-soul  of  singing  ; 
And  thus  my  spirit  sang  to  me 
When   youth   its   wanton   way  was  wing- 
ing: 

"  Be  glad,  be  sad — thou  hast  the  choice  — 
But  mingle  music  with  thy  voice. " 

The  linnets  on  the  Linden-tree, 
Among  the  leaves  in  autumn  dying, 
Are  making  gentle  melody, 
A  mild,  mysterious,  mournful  sighing  ; 
And  thus  my  spirit  sings  to  me 
While  years  are  flying,  flying,  flying  : 
"  Be  sad,  be  sad,  thou  hast  no  choice, 
But  mourn  with  music  in  thy  voice.  " 


Mortimer  Colling 


A  GREEK   IDYL 

HE  sat  the  quiet  stream  beside, 
His  white  feet  laving  in  the  tide, 


And  watch'd  the  pleasant  waters  glide 

Beneath  the  skies  of  summer. 
She  singing  came  from  mound  to  mound, 
Her  footfall  on  the  thymy  ground 


316 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


Unheard  ;  his  tranquil  haunt  she  found  — 
That  beautiful  new  comer. 

He  said  —  "  My  own  Gly cerium  ! 

The  pulses  of  the  woods  are  dumb, 

How  well  I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  come, 

Beneath  the  branches  gliding." 
The  dreamer  fancied  he  had  heard 
Her  footstep,  whensoever  stirr'd 
The  summer  wind  or  languid  bird 

Amid  the  boughs  abiding. 

She  dipp'd  her  fingers  in  the  brook, 
And  gaz'd  awhile  with  happy  look 
Upon  the  windings  of  a  book 

Of  Cyprian  hymnings  tender. 
The  ripples  to  the  ocean  raced  — 
The  flying  minutes  pass'd  in  haste  : 
His  arm  was  round  the  maiden's  waist, 

That  waist  so  very  slender. 

0  cruel  Time  !  O  tyrant  Time  ! 
Whose  winter  all  the  streams  of  rhyme, 
The  flowing  waves  of  love  sublime, 

In  bitter  passage  freezes. 

1  only  see  the  scambling  goat, 
The  lotos  on  the  waters  float, 
While  an  old  shepherd  with  an  oat 

Pipes  to  the  autumn  breezes. 


KATE  TEMPLE'S    SONG 

ONLY  a  touch,  and  nothing  more  : 

Ah  !  but  never  so  touch'd  before  ! 

Touch  of  lip,  was  it  ?  Touch  of  hand  ? 

Either  is  easy  to  understand. 

Earth  may  be  smitten  with  fire  or  frost  — 

Never  the  touch  of  true  love  lost. 

Only  a  word,  was  it  ?  Scarce  a  word  ! 
Musical  whisper,  softly  heard, 
Syllabled  nothing  —  just  a  breath  — 
'T  will    outlast    life,  and  't  will  laugh   at 

death. 

Love  with  so  little  can  do  so  much  — 
Only  a  word,  sweet  1  Only  a  touch  ! 


THE  IVORY   GATE 

Sunt  geminae  Somni  portae  :  quarum  altera  fertur 
Cornea  ;  qua  veris  facilis  datur  exitus  umbris  : 
Altera  candeuti  perfecta  nitens  elephanto  ; 
Sed  falsa  ad  coelum  mittuut  insomnia  Manes. 

VERGIL. 

WHEN,  lov'd  by  poet  and  painter, 

The  sunrise  fills  the  sky, 
When  night's  gold  urns  grow  fainter, 

And  in  depths  of  amber  die  — 
When  the  morn-breeze  stirs  the  curtain, 

Bearing  an  odorous  freight  — 
Then  visions  strange,  uncertain, 

Pour  thick  through  the  Ivory  Gate. 

Then  the  oars  of  Ithaca  dip  so 

Silently  into  the  sea 
That  they  wake  not  sad  Calypso, 

And  the  Hero  wanders  free  : 
He  breasts  the  ocean-furrows, 

At  war  with  the  words  of  Fate, 
And  the  blue  tide's  low  susurrus 

Comes  up  to  the  Ivory  Gate. 

Or,  clad  in  the  hide  of  leopard, 

'Mid  Ida's  freshest  dews. 
Paris,  the  Teucrian  shepherd, 

His  sweet  Oenone  wooes  : 
On  the  thought  of  her  coming  bridal 

Unutter'd  joy  doth  wait, 
While  the  tune  of  the  false  one's  idyl 

Rings  soft  through  the  Ivory  Gate. 

Or  down  from  green  Helvellyn 

The  roar  of  streams  I  hear, 
And  the  lazy  sail  is  swelling 

To  the  winds  of  Windermere  : 
That  girl  with  the  rustic  bodice 

'Mid  the  ferry's  laughing  freight 
Is  as  fair  as  any  goddess 

Who  sweeps  through  the  Ivory  Gate. 

Ah,  the  vision  of  dawn  is  leisure  — 

But  the  truth  of  day  is  toil  ; 
And  we  pass  from  dreams  of  pleasure 

To  the  world's  unstay'd  turmoil. 
Perchance,  beyond  the  river 

Which  guards  the  realms  of  Fate, 
Our  spirits  may  dwell  forever 

'Mong  dreams  of  the  Ivory  Gate. 


BALLADISTS   AND  LYRISTS 


317 


IDiliuim 

THE    FAIRIES 
A  CHILD'S  SONG 

UP  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-huuting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home,  — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He  's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 


Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 
In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  dare  n't  go  a-huuting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 


LOVELY  MARY  DONNELLY 

OH,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love 

the  best  ! 
If  fifty  girls  were  round  you  I  'd  hardly  see 

the  rest. 
Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place 

be  where  it  will, 
Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom 

before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that 's  flow- 
ing on  a  rock, 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are  !  and 
they  give  me  many  a  shock. 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine  and  wetted 
with  a  show'r, 

Could  ne'er  express  the  charming  lip  that 
has  me  in  its  pow'r. 

Her  nose  is   straight   and  handsome,  her 

eyebrows  lifted  up, 
Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth 

like  a  china  cup, 
Her  hair  's  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty 

and  so  fine  ; 
It's    rolling    down    upon   her    neck,    and 

gather'd  in  a  twine. 

The  dance  o'  last  Whit-Monday  night  ex- 
ceeded all  before  ; 

No  pretty  girl  for  miles  about  was  missing 
from  the  floor  ; 

But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  O  but 
she  was  gay  ! 

She  danced  a  jig,  she  sung  a  song,  that  took 
my  heart  away. 


BALLADISTS   AND  LYRISTS 


When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps 

were  so  complete, 
The  music  nearly  kill'd  itself  to  listen  to 

her  feet ; 
The  fiddler  moan'd  his  blindness,  he  heard 

her  so  much  prais'd, 
But  bless'd  himself  he  was  n't  deaf  when 

once  her  voice  she  rais'd. 

And  evermore  I  'm  whistling  or  lilting  what 

you  sung, 
Your  smile  is  always   in  my  heart,   your 

name  beside  my  tongue  ; 
But  you  've  as  many  sweethearts  as  you  'd 

count  on  both  your  hands, 
And  for  myself   there  's  not  a  thumb  or 

little  finger  stands. 

Oh,  you  're  the  flower  o'  womankind  in 

country  or  in  town  ; 
The  higher  I  exalt  you,  the  lower  I  'm  cast 

down. 
If  some  great  lord  should  come  this  way, 

and  see  your  beauty  bright, 
And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I  'd  own  it  was  but 

right. 

0  might  we  live  together  in  a  lofty  palace 
hall, 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scar- 
let curtains  fall  ! 

O  might  we  live  together  in  a  cottage  mean 
and  small, 

With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud 
the  only  wall ! 

O  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty 's  my 

distress  : 
It 's  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I  '11 

never  wish  it  less. 
The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and 

I  am  poor  and  low  ; 
But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever 

you  may  go  ! 


THE   SAILOR 

A    ROMAIC    BALLAD 

THOU  that  hast  a  daughter 
For  one  to  woo  and  wed, 

Give  her  to  a  husband 

With  snow  upon  his  head  ; 

Oh,  give  her  to  an  old  man, 
Though  little  joy  it  be, 


Before  the  best  young  sailor 
That  sails  upon  the  sea  ! 

How  luckless  is  the  sailor 

When  sick  and  like  to  die  ; 
He  sees  no  tender  mother, 

No  sweetheart  standing  by. 
Only  the  captain  speaks  to  him,  — 

Stand  up,  stand  up,  young  man, 
And  steer  the  ship  to  haven, 

As  none  beside  thee  can. 

Thou  say'st  to  me,  "  Stand  up,  stand  up  ;n 

I  say  to  thee,  take  hold, 
Lift  rne  a  little  from  the  deck, 

My  hands  and  feet  are  cold. 
And  let  my  head,  I  pray  thee, 

With  handkerchiefs  be  bound  ; 
There,  take  my  love's  gold  handkerchief, 

And  tie  it  tightly  round. 

Now  bring  the  chart,  the  doleful  chart ; 

See,  where  these  mountains  meet  — 
The  clouds  are  thick  around  their  head, 

The  mists  around  their  feet  ; 
Cast  anchor  here  ;  't  is  deep  and  safe 

Within  the  rocky  cleft ; 
The  little  anchor  on  the  right, 

The  great  one  on  the  left. 

And  now  to  thee,  O  captain, 

Most  earnestly  I  pray, 
That  they  may  never  bury  me 

In  church  or  cloister  gray  ; 
But  on  the  windy  sea-beach, 

At  the  ending  of  the  land, 
All  on  the  surfy  sea-beach, 

Deep  down  into  the  sand. 

For  there  will  come  the  sailors, 

Their  voices  I  shall  hear, 
And  at  casting  of  the  anchor 

The  yo-ho  loud  and  clear  ; 
And  at  hauling  of  the  anchor 

The  yo-ho  and  the  cheer,  — 
Farewell,  my  love,  for  to  thy  bay 

I  nevermore  may  steer! 

A   DREAM 

I  HEARD  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight 

night  ; 

I  went  to  the  window  to  see  the  sight ; 
All  the  Dead  that  ever  I  knew 
Going  one  by  one  and  two  by  two. 


WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM 


On  they  pass'd,  and  on  they  pass'd  ; 
Townsfellows  all,  from  first  to  last ; 
Born  in  the  moonlight  of  the  lane, 
Quench'd  in  the  heavy  shadow  again. 

Schoolmates,  marching  as  when  we  play'd 
At  soldiers  once  — but  now  more  staid  ; 
Those  were  the  strangest  sight  to  me 
Who  were  drown'd,  I  knew,  in  the  awful 
sea. 

Straight    and    handsome    folk ;  bent    and 

weak,  too  ; 
Some   that  I  lov'd,  and  gasp'd  to  speak 

to; 

Some  but  a  day  in  their  churchyard  bed  ; 
Some  that  I  had  not  known  were  dead. 

A  long,  long  crowd  — where  each  seem'  d 

lonely, 

Yet  of  them  all  there  was  one,  one  only, 
Raised  a  head  or  look'd  my  way  : 
She  linger'd  a  moment,  —  she  might   not 

stay. 

How  long  since  I  saw  that  fair  pale  face  ! 
Ah  !  Mother  dear  !  might  I  only  place 
My   head    on    thy   breast,   a   moment    to 

rest, 
While  thy  hand  on  my  tearful  cheek  were 

prest ! 

On,  on,  a  moving  bridge  they  made 
Across  the    moon-stream,  from    shade    to 

shade, 

Young  and  old,  women  and  men  ; 
Many  long-forgot,  but  remember'd  then. 

And  first  there  came  a  bitter  laughter  ; 
A  sound  of  tears  the  moment  after  ; 
And  then  a  music  so  lofty  and  gay, 
That  every  morning,  day  by  day, 
I  strive  to  recall  it  if  I  may. 


HALF-WAKING 

I  THOUGHT  it  was  the  little  bed 

I  slept  in  long  ago  ; 
A  straight  white  curtain  at  the  head, 

And  two  smooth  knobs  below. 


I  thought  I  saw  the  nursery  fire, 

And  in  a  chair  well-known 
My  mother  sat,  and  did  not  tire 

With  reading  all  alone. 

If  I  should  make  the  slightest  sound 

To  show  that  I  'm  awake, 
She  'd  rise,  and  lap  the  blankets  pound, 

My  pillow  softly  shake  ; 

Kiss  me,  and  turn  my  face  to  see 

The  shadows  on  the  wall, 
And  then  sing  "  Rousseau's  Dream  "  to  me. 

Till  fast  asleep  I  fall. 

But  this  is  not  my  little  bed  ; 

That  time  is  far  away  : 
With  strangers  now  I  live  instead, 

From  dreary  day  to  day. 


DAY   AND    NIGHT   SONGS 

THESE  little  Songs, 

Found  here  and  there, 

Floating  in  air 

By  forest  and  lea, 

Or  hill-side  heather, 

In  houses  and  throngs, 

Or  down  by  the  sea  — 

Have  come  together, 

How,  I  can't  tell  : 

But  I  know  full  well 

No  witty  goose-wing 

On  an  inkstand  begot  'em  ; 

Remember  each  place 

And  moment  of  grace, 

In  summer  or  spring, 

Winter  or  autumn, 

By  sun,  moon,  stars, 

Or  a  coal  in  the  bars, 

In  market  or  church, 

Graveyard  or  dance, 

When  they  came  without  search., 

Were  found  as  by  chance. 

A  word,  a  line, 

You  may  say  are  mine  ; 

But  the  best  in  the  songs, 

Whatever  it  be, 

To  you,  and  to  me, 

And  to  no  one  belongs. 


320 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


JBalter 


THE  THREE   SCARS 


THIS  I  got  on  the  day  that  Goring 
Fought  through  York,  like    a  wild    beast 

roaring  — 
The  roofs  were  black,  and  the  streets  were 

full, 

The  doors  built  up  with  packs  of  wool  ; 
But  our  pikes  made  way  through  a  storm 

of  shot, 

Barrel  to  barrel  till  locks  grew  hot  ; 
Frere  fell  dead,  and  Lucas  was  gone, 
But  the  drum  still  beat  and  the  flag  went  on. 

This  I  caught  from  a  swinging  sabre, 
All  I  had  from  a  long  night's  labor  ; 
When  Chester  flam'd,  and  the  streets  were 

red, 

In  splashing  shower  fell  the  molten  lead, 
The  fire  sprang  up,  and  the  old  roof  split, 
The  lire-ball  burst  in  the  middle  of  it  ; 
With  a  clash  and  a  clang  the  troopers  they 

ran, 
For  the  siege  was  over  ere  well  began. 

This  I  got  from  a  pistol  butt 

(Lucky  my  head  's  not  a  hazel  nut)  ; 

The  horse  they  raced,  and    scudded    and 

swore  ; 
There  were  Leicestershire  gentlemen,  sev- 

enty score  ; 
Up    came    the    "  Lobsters,"   cover'd   with 

steel  — 

Down  we  went  with  a  stagger  and  reel  ; 
Smash  at  the  flag,  I  tore  it  to  rag, 
And  carried  it  off  in  my  foraging  bag. 

MELTING  OF  THE  EARL'S  PLATE 

HERE  's  the  gold  cup  all  bossy  with  satyrs 

and  saints, 
And  my  race-bowl  (now,  women,  no  whin- 

ing and  plaints  !) 
From   the  paltriest  spoon  to  the  costliest 

thing, 
We  '11  melt  it  all  down  for  the  use  of  the 

king. 

Here  's  the  chalice  stamp'd  over  with  sigil 

and  cross,  — 
Some  day  we  '11  make  up  to  the  chapel  the 

loss. 


Now  bring  me  my  father's  great  emerald 
ring, 

For  I  '11  melt  down  the  gold  for  the  good 

f  ii     i  •  e 

or  the  king. 

And  bring  me  the  casket  my  mother  has  got. 
And  the  jewels  that  fall  to  my  Barbara's 

lot; 
Then  dry  up  your  eyes  and  do  nothing  but 

sing, 
For  we  're  helping  to  coin  the  gold  for  the 

king. 

This  dross  we  '11  transmute  into  weapons  of 
steel, 

Temper'd  blades  for  the  hand,  sharpest 
spurs  for  the  heel ; 

And  when  Charles,  with  a  shout,  into  Lon- 
don we  bring, 

We  '11  be  glad  to  remember  this  deed  for 
the  king. 

Bring  the  hawk's  silver  bells  and  the  nurs- 
ery spoon, 

The  crucible 's  ready  —  we're  nothing  too 
soon  ; 

For  I  hear  the  horse  neigh  that  shall  carry 
the  thing 

That  '11  bring  up  a  smile  in  the  eyes  of  the 
king. 

There  go  my  old  spurs,  and  the  old  silver 

Jug>  — 

'T  was  just  for  a  moment  a  pang  and  a  tug  ; 
But  now  I  am  ready  to  dance  and  to  sing, 
To  think  I  Ve  thrown  gold  in  the  chest  of 

my  king. 

The  earrings  lose  shape,  and  the  coronet 

too, 

I  feel  my  eyes  dim  with  a  sort  of  a  dew. 
Hurrah  for  the  posset  dish  !  —  Everything 
Shall  run  into  bars  for  the  use  of  the  king. 

That  spoon  is  a  sword,  and  this  thimble  a 

pike  ; 

It 's  but    a  week's  garret  in    London   be- 
like- 
Then  a  dash  at  Whitehall,  and   the    city 

shall  ring 

With  the  shouts  of  the  multitude  bringing 
the  king. 


GEORGE  WALTER  THORNBURY 


321 


THE  THREE  TROOPERS 

DURING   THE   PROTECTORATE 

INTO  the  Devil  tavern 

Three  booted  troopers  strode, 
From  spur  to  feather  spotted  and  splash'd 

With  the  mud  of  a  winter  road. 
In  each  of  their  cups  they  dropp'd  a  crust, 

And  star'd  at  the  guests  with  a  f  rowii ; 
Then  drew  their  swords,  and  roar'd  for  a 
toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

A  blue  smoke  rose  from  their  pistol  locks, 

Their  sword  blades  were  still  wet  ; 
There  were  long  red  smears  on  their  jer- 
kins of  buff, 

As  the  table  they  overset. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  stirr'd  the  crusts, 

And  curs'd  old  London  town  ; 
Then  wav'd  their  swords,  and  drank  with 
a  stamp, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  ! " 

The  'prentice  dropp'd  his  can  of  beer, 

The  host  turn'd  pale  as  a  clout  ; 
The  ruby  nose  of  the  toping  squire 

Grew  white  at  the  wild  men's  shout. 
Then  into  their  cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 

And  show'd  their  teeth  with  a  frown  ; 
They  flash'd  their  swords  as  they  gave  the 
toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

The  gambler  dropp'd  his  dog's-ear'd  cards, 

The  waiting-women  scream'd, 
As   the   light   of   the   fire,   like   stains   of 
blood, 

On  the  wild  men's  sabres  gleam'd. 
Then   into   their   cups    they   splash'd   the 
crusts, 

And  curs'd  the  fool  of  a  town, 
And  leap'd  on  the  table,  and  roar'd  a  toast, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 

Pill  on  a  sudden  fire-bells  rang, 

And  the  troopers  sprang  to  horse  ; 
The  eldest  mutter'd  between  his  teeth, 

Hot  curses  —  deep  and  coarse. 
In  their  stirrup  cups  they  flung  the  crusts, 

And  cried  as  they  spurr'd  through  town, 
With  their  keen  swords  drawn  and  their 
pistols  cock'd, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


Away  they  dash'd  through  Temple  Bar, 

Their  red  cloaks  flowing  free, 
Their   scabbards  clash'd,    each  back-piece 
shone  — 

None  lik'd  to  touch  the  three. 
The  silver  cups  that  held  the  crusts 

They  flung  to  the  startled  town, 
Shouting  again,  with  a  blaze  of  swords, 

"  God  send  this  Crum-well-down  !  " 


THE  WHITE  ROSE  OVER  THE 
WATER 

EDINBURGH,  1744 

THE  old  men  sat  with  hats  pull'd  down, 

Their  claret  cups  before  them  : 
Broad  shadows  hid  their  sullen  eyes, 

The  tavern  lamps  shone  o'er  them, 
As  a  brimming  bowl,  with  crystal  fill'd, 

Came  borne  by  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Who  wore  in  her  bosom  the  fair  white  rose, 

That  grew  best  over  the  water. 

Then  all  leap'd  up,  and  join'd  their  hands 

With  hearty  clasp  and  greeting, 
The  brimming  cups,  outstretch'd  by  all, 

Over  the  wide  bowl  meeting. 
"A  health,"  they  cried, "  to  the  witching  eyes 

Of  Kate,  the  landlord's  daughter  ! 
But  don't  forget  the  white,  white  rose 

That  grows  best  over  the  water." 

Each  others'  cups  they  touch'd  all  round, 

The  last  red  drop  outpouring  ; 
Then  with  a  cry  that  warm'd  the  blood, 

One  heart-born  chorus  roaring  — 
"  Let  the  glass  go  round,  to  pretty  Kate, 

The  landlord's  black-eyed  daughter  ; 
But  never  forget  the  white,  white  rose 

That  grows  best  over  the  water." 

Then  hats  flew  up  and  swords  sprang  out, 

And  lusty  rang  the  chorus  — 
"  Never,"  they  cried,  "while  Scots  are  Scots. 

And  the  broad  Frith  's  before  us." 
A  ruby  ring  the  glasses  shine 

As  they  toast  the  landlord's  daughter, 
Because  she  wore  the  white,  white  rose 

That  grew  best  over  the  water. 

A  poet  cried,  "  Our  thistle  's  brave, 
With  all  its  stings  and  prickles  ; 

The  shamrock  with  its  holy  leaf 
Is  spar'd  by  Irish  sickles. 


BALLADISTS  AND   LYRISTS 


But  bumpers  round,  for  what  are  these 
To  Kate,  the  landlord's  daughter, 

Who  wears  at  her  bosom  the  rose  as  white, 
That  grows  best  over  the  water  ?  " 

They  dash'd  the  glasses  at  the  wall, 

No  lip  might  touch  them  after  ; 
The  toast  had  sanctified  the  cups 

That  smash'd  against  the  rafter  ; 
Then  chairs  thrown  back,  they  up  again 

To  toast  the  landlord's  daughter, 
But  never  forgot  the  white,  white  rose 

That  grew  best  over  the  water. 

THE  JACOBITE  ON  TOWER  HILL 

HE  tripp'd  up  the  steps  with  a  bow  and  a 

smile, 

Offering  snuff  to  the  chaplain  the  while, 
A  rose  at  his  button-hole  that  afternoon  — 
'Twas  the  tenth  of  the  month,  and  the  month 

it  was  June. 

Then  shrugging  his  shoulders  he  look'd  at 
the  man 

With  the  mask  and  the  axe,  and  a  murmur- 
ing ran 

Through  the  crowd,  who,  below,  were  all 
pushing  to  see 

The  gaoler  kneel  down,  and  receiving  his  fee. 

He  look'd  at  the  mob,  as  they  roar'd,  with 

a  stare, 

And  took  snuff  again  with  a  cynical  air. 
"  I  'm  happy  to  give  but  a  moment's  delight 
To  the  flower  of  my  country  agog  for  a 

sight." 

Then  he  look'd  at  the  block,  and  with 
scented  cravat 

Dusted  room  for  his  neck,  gaily  doffing 
his  hat, 

Kiss'd  his  hand  to  a  lady,  bent  low  to  the 
crowd, 

Then  smiling,  turn'd  round  to  the  heads- 
man and  bow'd. 

*  God  save  King  James  !  "  he  cried  bravely 

and  shrill, 
And  the  cry  reach'd  the  houses  at  foot  of 

the  hill, 
"  My  friend,  with  the  axe,  a  votre  service" 

lie  said  ; 
And  ran  his  white  thumb  'long  the  edge  of 

the  blade. 


When  the  multitude  hiss'd  he  stood  firm  as 

a  rock  ; 
Then  kneeling,  laid  down  his  gay  head  on 

the  block  ; 
He  kiss'd   a  white  rose,  —  iu  a  moment 

't  was  red 
With  the  life  of   the  bravest  of  any  that 

bled. 

THE  DEATH  OF  MARLBOROUGH 

THE  sun  shines  on  the  chamber  wall, 

The  sun  shines  through  the  tree, 
Now,  though  unshaken  by  the  wind, 

The  leaves  fall  ceaselessly  ; 
The  bells  from  Woodstock's  steeple 

Shake  Blenheim's  fading  bough. 
"  This  day  you  won  Malplaquet,"  — 

"  Aye,  something  then,  but  now  ! " 

They  lead  the  old  man  to  a  chair, 

Wandering,  pale  and  weak  ; 
His  thin  lips  move  —  so  faint  the  sound 

You  scarce  jean  hear  him  speak. 
They  lift  a  picture  from  the  wall, 

Bold  eyes  and  swelling  brow  ; 
"  The  day  you  won  Malplaquet," — 

"  Aye,  something  then,  but  now  !  " 

They  reach  him  down  a  rusty  sword, 

In  faded  velvet  sheath  : 
The  old  man  drops  the  heavy  blade, 

And  mutters  'tween  his  teeth  ; 
There  's  sorrow  in  his  fading  eye, 

And  pain  upon  his  brow  ; 
"  With  this  you  won  Malplaquet,"  — 

"Aye,  something  then,  but  now  !  " 

Another  year,  a  stream  of  lights 

Flows  down  the  avenue  ; 
A  mile  of  mourners,  sable  clad, 

Walk  weeping  two  by  two  ; 
The  steward  looks  into  the  grave 

With  sad  and  downcast  brow  : 
"  This  day  he  won  Malplaquet,  — 

Aye,  something  then,  but  now  !  " 

THE  OLD   GRENADIER'S   STORV 

TOLD   ON    A    BENCH    OUTSIDE   THE   INVALIDES 

'T  WAS  the  day  beside  the  Pyramids, 

It  seems  but  an  hour  ago, 
That  Kleber's  Foot  stood  firm  in  squares, 

Returning  blow  for  blow. 


THORNBURY  —  VEITCH 


323 


The  Mamelukes  were  tossing 

Their  standards  to  the  sky, 
When  I  heard  a  child's  voice  say,  "  My  men, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  !  " 

;T  was  a  little  drummer,  with  his  side 

Torn  terribly  with  shot  ; 
But  still  he  feebly  beat  his  drum, 

As  though  the  wound  were  not. 
And  when  the  Mameluke's  wild  horse 

Burst  with  a  scream  and  cry, 
He  said,  "  O  men  of  the  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  ! 

"  My  mother  has  got  other  sons, 

With  stouter  hearts  than  mine, 
But  none  more  ready  blood  for  France 

To  pour  out  fre,e  as  wine. 
Yet  still  life 's  sweet,"  the  brave  lad  moan'd, 

"  Fair  are  this  earth  and  sky  ; 
Then,  comrades  of  the  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  ! " 

I  saw  Salenche,  of  the  granite  heart, 

Wiping  his  burning  eyes  — 
It  was  by  far  more  pitiful 

Than  mere  loud  sobs  and  cries. 
One  bit  his  cartridge  till  his  lip 

Grew  black  as  winter  sky, 
But  still  the  boy  moan'd,  "  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  !  " 

O  never  saw  I  sight  like  that ! 

The  sergeant  flung  down  flag, 
Even  the  flfer  bound  his  brow 

With  a  wet  and  bloody  rag, 
Then  look'd  at  locks  and  fix'd  their  steel, 

But  never  made  reply, 
Until  he  sobb'd  out  once  again, 

"  Teach  me  the  way  to  die  !  " 

Then,  with  a  shout  that  flew  to  God, 
They  strode  into  the  fray  ; 


I  saw  their  red  plumes  join  and  wave, 

But  slowly  melt  away. 
The  last  who  went  —  a  wounded  man  — • 

Bade  the  poor  boy  good-bye, 
And  said,  "  We  men  of  the  Forty-third 

Teach  you  the  way  to  die  !  " 

I  never  saw  so  sad  a  look 

As  the  poor  youngster  cast, 
When  the  hot  smoke  of  cannon 

In  cloud  and  whirlwind  pass'd. 
Earth  shook,  and  Heaven  answer'd  ; 

I  watch'd  his  eagle  eye, 
As  he  faintly  moan'd,  "  The  Forty-third 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  ! " 

Then,  with  a  musket  for  a  crutch, 

He  limp'd  unto  the  fight  ; 
I,  with  a  bullet  in  my  hip, 

Had  neither  strength  nor  might. 
But,  proudly  beating  on  his  drum, 

A  fever  in  his  eye, 
I  heard  him  moan  "  The  Forty-third 

Taught  me  the  way  to  die  !  " 

They  found  him  on  the  morrow, 

Stretch'd  on  a  heap  of  dead  ; 
His  hand  was  in  the  grenadier's 

Who  at  his  bidding  bled. 
They  hung  a  medal  round  his  neck, 

And  cios'd  his  dauntless  eye  ; 
On  the  stone  they  cut,  "  The  Forty-third 

Taught  him  the  way  to  die  !  " 

'T  is  forty  years  from  then  till  now  — 

The  grave  gapes  at  my  feet  — 
Yet  when  I  think  of  such  a  boy 

I  feel  my  old  heart  beat. 
And  from  my  sleep  I  sometimes  wake, 

Hearing  a  feeble  cry, 
And  a  voice  that  says,  "  Now,  Forty-third, 

Teach  me  the  way  to  die  !  " 


THE   LAIRD   OF   SCHELYNLAW 

SCHELYNLAW  TOWER  is  fair  on  the  brae, 

Its  muirs  are  green  and  wide, 
And  Schelynlaw's   ewes    are   the   brawest 
ewes 

In  a'  the  country-side. 


.n  Ucitrf) 


The    birk    grows    there    and    the   rowan 

red, 

And  the  burnie  brattles  down, 
And  there  are  nae  sic  kuowes  as  Schelyn- 

law's, 
With  the  heather  and  bent  sae  brown. 


324 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


But  wife,  three  bairns  are  a'  f rae  him  gane, 

Twa  sous  in  a  deidly  raid  ; 
And  but  yestreen  his  bonnie  lass  Jean 

In  Traquair  kirkyard  was  laid. 

A  lane  auld  man  in  his  ain  auld  keep,  — 
What  ane  could  wish  him  ill  ? 

Not  e'en  Traquair  wi'  his  black  fause  heart 
And  his  loons  that  range  the  hill. 

Out  in  the  morn  to  the  muirland  dun 
Rode  ane  frae  Schelynlaw's  gate, 

Into  the  mist  of  the  hill  he  rode, 
His  errand  might  not  wait. 

The  opening  arms  of  the  grey  hill  haur 

Folded  the  rider  dim  ; 
Oh,  cloud  of  the  muir  !  't  is  a  gruesome  deed 

Ye  hide  in  your  misty  rim. 

Up  he  made  for  the  Black  Syke  Rig, 
And  round  by  the  Fingland  Glen, 

But  he  turn'd  and  turn'd  him  aye  in  the 

mist ; 
Its  glower  was  as  faces  of  men  ! 

And  oft  a  voice  sounded  low  in  his  ear, 
"  The  sun  is  no'  gaun  to  daw  — 

For  that  straik  o'  blude  and  that  clot  o' 

blude, 
On  the  breist  o'  auld  Schelynlaw  !  " 

'T  was   late   o'   nicht  —  to   the   House    of 
Traquair 

A  horseman  came  jaded  and  rude, 
None  asked  him  whence  or  why  he  came, 

Nor  whose  on  his  hands  was  the  blude. 


"  But    hae    ye    the    Bond  ? "    said    hard 
Traquair. 

"  The  Bond  i'  faith  I  hae  ; 
The  deid  sign  nae  mair,  the  lands  are  thine, 

But  foul  was  the  stroke  I  gae  : 

"  I  Ve  ridden  wi'  you  ower  moss  and  fell, 

In  moonlight  and  in  mirk, 
And  monie  a  stalwart  man  I  've  hewn,  -— 

So  shrive  me,  Haly  Kirk  ! 

"  Lewinshope  Tarn  and  Wulrus  Will 

I  slew,  and  Jock  o'  the  Ha'  ; 
But  there  's  my  richt  hand  to  burn  in  flame, 

Could  I  bring  back  auld  Schelynlaw  !  " 

Schelynlaw's  lands   were  ne'er  bought  or 
sold, 

Yet  they  fell  to  the  house  of  Traquair  ; 
But  Jock  o'  Grieston  that  rode  that  morn 

Was  ne'er  seen  to  ride  ony  mair. 

High  in  state  rose  the  noble  Earl, 

Well  did  he  please  the  King  ; 
He  could  tell  any  lie  to  the  States  or  the 
Kirk, 

His  warrant  the  signet-ring. 

Many  a  year  has  come  and  gone, 
His  pride  and  his  power  are  away, 

A  graceless  son  has  the  old  lord's  lands, 
And  the  father's  hairs  are  grey. 

The  Court  is  back  to  Edinburgh  town, 
Lairds  and  braw  leddies  ride  there  ; 

A  dole  some  give  to  a  bow'd-down  man, 
In  pity,  —  't  is  auld  Traquair  ! 


THE    HIGH      TIDE       ON     THE 
COAST    OF    LINCOLNSHIRE 

(1570 

THE  old  mayor  climb'd  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three  ; 

"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pull'd  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he. 

"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells  ! 

Ply  all  vour  changes,  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe,  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.' " 


Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 

But  in  inyiie  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  : 

And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 

The  flight  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By  millions  crouch'd  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  rais'd  myne  eyes , 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; 


JEAN   INGELOW 


325 


And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song, 
"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along  ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song  — 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Light- 
foot  ; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow  ; 

Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Light- 
foot, 

Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed.  " 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong  ; 
And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  tower'd  from  out  the  greene  ; 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Mov'd  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 

Then  some  look'd  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 


To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 
They  sayde,  "And  why  should  this  thing 

be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 
They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spar'd  to  wake  the  towne  '. 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  '  ?  " 

I  look'd  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  dowue  with  might  and  main  : 

He  rais'd  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  " 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 

"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith  ; 

"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

"  Good  sonne,  where  LiMis  winds  her  way, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long  ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho,  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby  ! " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 

For,  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  rear'd  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  ; 
Shap'd  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  press'd 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine  ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 

Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and 
rout  — 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 

Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 


326 


BALL  ADI  STS   AND  LYRISTS 


So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time,  to  beat 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobb'd  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  ; 

I  mark'd  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and 
high  — 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby. " 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  row'd  ; 
And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glow'd  : 
And  yet  he  moan'd  beneath  his  breath, 
"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

0  lost  !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou    didst,   thou   didst,   my    daughter 

deare  ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strew'd  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That    ebbe    swept    out    the     flocks    to 
sea  ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee  ; 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith)  ; 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

1  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
«  Cusha  !  Cusha  ! "  all  along 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 

When  the  water  winding  down, 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 


I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver  ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Light- 

foot  ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow; 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow  ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

SAILING   BEYOND    SEAS 

METHOUGHT     the     stars     were     blinking 

bright, 

And  the  old  brig's  sails  unfurl'd  ; 
I  said,  "  I  will  sail  to  my  love  this  night 

At  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
I  stepp'd  aboard,  —  we  sail'd  so  fast,  — 

The  sun  shot  up  from  the  bourn  ; 
But  a  dove  that  perch 'd  upon  the  mast 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 
O  fair  dove  !  O  fond  dove  ! 

And  dove  with  the  white  breast, 
Let  me  alone,  the  dream  is  my  own, 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  rest. 

My  true  love  fares  on  this  great  hill, 

Feeding  his  sheep  for  aye  ; 
I  look'd  in  his  hut,  but  all  was  still, 

My  love  was  gone  away. 
I  went  to  gaze  in  the  forest  creek, 

And  the  dove  mourn'd  on  apace  ; 
No  flame  did  flash,  nor  fair  blue  reek 
Rose  up  to  show  me  his  place. 
O  last  love  !   O  first  love  ! 

My  love  with  the  true  heart, 
To  think  I   have  come   to   this  your 

home, 
And  yet  —  we  are  apart ! 

My  love  !  He  stood  at  my  right  hand, 
His  eyes  were  grave  and  sweet. 

Methought  he  said,  "  In  this  far  land, 
O,  is  it  thus  we  meet  ? 


INGELOW  —  JOYCE 


327 


Ah,  maid  most  dear,  I  am  not  here  ; 

I  have  no  place,  —  no  part,  — 
No  dwelling  more  by  sea  or  shore, 
But  only  in  thy  heart." 

O  fair  dove  !  O  fond  dove  ! 

Till  night  rose  over  the  bourn, 
The  dove  on  the  mast,  as  we  sail'd  fast, 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 


THE    LONG   WHITE    SEAM 

As  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy, 

The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
No  wave  the  land-lock'd  water  stirr'd, 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream  ; 
And  I  mark'd  my  love  by  candle-light 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

It 's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea, 
It 's  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line, 
Set  sail  and  think  of  thee. 


I  climb'd  to  reach  her  cottage  door  ; 

O  sweetly  my  love  sings  ! 
Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks  forth, 

My  soul  to  meet  it  springs 
As  the  shining  water  leap'd  of  old, 
When  stirr'd  by  angel  wings. 
Aye  longing  to  list  anew, 

Awake  and  in  my  dream, 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair  fall  the  lights,  the  harbor  lights, 

That  brought  me  in  to  thee, 
And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low  roof 

For  the  sight  that  I  did  see, 
And    the   voice,   my   dear,   that    rang  so 

clear 
All  for  the  love  of  me. 

For  O,  for  O,  with  brows  bent  low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam, 
Her  wedding  gown  it  was  she  wrought, 
Sewing  the  long  white  seam. 


0o6ert 


CROSSING   THE  BLACKWATER 

A.  D.  1603 

WE  stood  so  steady, 

All  under  fire, 
We  stood  so  steady, 
Our  long  spears  ready 

To  vent  our  ire  : 
To  dash  on  the  Saxon, 
Our  mortal  foe, 
And  lay  him  low 

In  the  bloody  mire. 

'T  was  by  Blackwater, 
When  snows  were  white, 

'T  was  by  Blackwater, 

Our  foes  for  the  slaughter 
Stood  full  in  sight  ; 

But  we  were  ready 

With  our  long  spears, 

And  we  had  no  fears 
But  we  'd  win  the  fight. 

Their  bullets  came  whistling 

Upon  our  rank, 
Their  bullets  came  whistling, 


Their  spears  were  bristling 

On  th'  other  bank  : 
Yet  we  stood  steady, 
And  each  good  blade, 
Ere  the  morn  did  fade, 

At  their  life-blood  drank. 

"  Hurrah  !  for  Freedom  ! " 

Came  from  our  van, 
"  Hurrah  !  for  Freedom  ! 
Our  swords  —  we  '11  feed  'em 

As  best  we  can  — 
With  vengeance  we  '11  feed  'em  I 
Then  down  we  crash'd, 
Through  the  wild  ford  dash'd, 
And  the  fray  began. 

Horses  to  horses, 

And  man  to  man  : 
O'er  dying  horses, 
And  blood  and  corses, 

O'Sullivan, 

Our  general,  thunder'd, 
And  we  were  not  slack 
To  slay  at  his  back 

Till  the  fight  began. 


328 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


O,  how  we  scatter'd 

The  f oemen  then,  — 
Slaughter'd  and  scatter'd, 
And  chas'd  and  shatter'd, 

By  shore  and  glen  ! 
To  the  wall  of  Moyallo 
Few  fled  that  day  : 
Will  they  bar  our  way 
When  we  come  again  ? 


Our  dead  freres  we  buried, 

They  were  but  few, 
Our  dead  freres  we  buried 
Where  the  dark  waves  hurried, 

And  flash 'd  and  flew  : 
O  sweet  be  their  slumber 
Who  thus  have  died 
In  the  battle's  tide, 

Inisfail,  for  you  ! 


TO   GOD   AND   IRELAND    TRUE 

I  SIT  beside  my  darling's  grave, 

Who  in  the  prison  died, 
And  though  my  tears  fall  thick  and  fast 

I  think  of  him  with  pride  : 
Ay,  softly  fall  my  tears  like  dew, 
For  one  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

"  I  love  my  God  o'er  all, "  he  said, 

"  And  then  I  love  my  land, 
And  next  I  love  my  LUy  sweet, 

Who  pledged  me  her  white  hand  : 
To  each  —  to  all  —  I  'm  ever  true, 
To  God,  to  Ireland,  and  to  you." 


No  tender  nurse  his  hard  bed  smooth'd 

Or  softly  rais'd  his  head  ; 
He  fell  asleep  and  woke  in  heaven 

Ere  I  knew  he  was  dead  ; 
Yet  why  should  I  my  darling  rue  ? 
He  was  to  God  and  Ireland  true. 

Oh,  't  is  a  glorious  memory  ! 

I  'm  prouder  than  a  queen, 
To  sit  beside  my  hero's  grave 

And  think  on  what  has  been  ; 
And,  O  my  darling,  I  am  true 
To  God  —  to  Ireland  —  and  to  you  I 


Hamilton  3Ci&e 


REMEMBER   OR   FORGET 

I  SAT  beside  the  streamlet, 

I  watch'd  the  water  flow, 
As  we  together  watch'd  it 

One  little  year  ago  : 
The  soft  rain  patter'd  on  the  leaves, 

The  April  grass  was  wet. 
Ah  !  folly  to  remember  ; 

'T  is  wiser  to  forget. 

The  nightingales  made  vocal 

June's  palace  pav'd  with  gold  ; 
I  watch'd  the  rose  you  gave  me 

Its  warm  red  heart  unfold  ; 
But  breath  of  rose  and  bird's  song 

Were  fraught  with  wild  regret. 
'T  is  madness  to  remember  ; 

'T  were  wisdom  to  forget. 

I  stood  among  the  gold  corn, 
Alas  !  no  more,  I  knew, 


To  gather  gleaner's  measure 
Of  the  love  that  fell  from  you. 

For  me,  no  gracious  harvest  — 
Would  God  we  ne'er  had  met  ! 

'T  is  hard,  Love,  to  remember,  but 
'T  is  harder  to  forget. 

The  streamlet  now  is  frozen, 

The  nightingales  are  fled, 
The  cornfields  are  deserted, 

And  every  rose  is  dead. 
I  sit  beside  my  lonely  fire, 

And  pray  for  wisdom  yet  • 
For  calmness  to  remember, 

Or  courage  to  forget. 

THE    DANUBE  RIVER 

Do  you  recall  that  night  in  June, 

Upon  the  Danube  river  ? 
We  listen'd  to  a  Landler  tune, 

We  watch'd  the  moonbeams  quiver. 


— SKIPSEY 


329 


I  oft  since  then  have  watch'd  the  moon, 

But  never,  love,  oh  !  never, 
Can  I  forget  that  night  in  June, 

Adown  the  Danube  river. 

Our  boat  kept  measure  with  its  oar, 

The  music  rose  in  snatches, 
From  peasants  dancing  on  the  shore 

With  boisterous  songs  and  catches. 
i  know  not  why  that  Laudler  rang 

Through  all  my  soul  —  but  never 
Can  I  forget  the  songs  they  sang 

Adown  the  Danube  river. 

WHEN   WE   ARE    PARTED 

WHEN  we  are  parted  let  me  lie 
In  some  far  corner  of  thy  heart, 
Silent,  and  from  the  world  apart, 

Like  a  forgotten  melody  : 

Forgotten  of  the  world  beside, 
Cherish'd  by  one,  and  one  alone, 
For  some  lov'd  memory  of  its  own  ; 

So  let  me  in  thy  heart  abide 

When  we  are  parted. 

When  we  are  parted,  keep  for  me 
The  sacred  stillness  of  the  night  ; 
That  hour,  sweet  Love,  is  mine  by  right ; 

Let  others  claim  the  day  of  thee  ! 

The  cold  world  sleeping  at  our  feet, 
My  spirit  shall  discourse  with  thine  ;  — 


When  stars  upon  thy  pillow  shine, 
At  thy  heart's  door  I  stand  and  beat, 

Though  we  are  parted. 

THE   FORSAKEN 

SHE  sat  beside  the  mountain  springs, 

Her  feet  were  on  the  water's  brink, 
And  oft  she  wept  when  she  beheld 

The  birds  that  lighted  there  to  drink  ; 
She  wept :  but  as  they  spread  their  wings, 

.Her  sweet  voice  follow'd  them  on  high « 
"  He  will  return  —  I  know  him  well  ; 

He  would  not  leave  me  here  to  die." 

And  there  she  sat,  as  months  roll'd  on, 

Unmindful  of  the  changing  year  ; 
She  heeded  not  the  sun,  or  snow, 

All  seasons  were  alike  to  her. 
She  look'd  upon  the  frozen  stream, 

She  listen'd  to  the  night  bird's  cry  : 
"  He  will  return  —  I  know  him  well ; 

He  would  not  leave  me  here  to  die." 

And  still  she  sits  beside  the  springs, 

And  combs  the  gold  drips  of  her  hair  ; 
Red  berries  for  a  bridal  crown 

At  early  morn  she  places  there. 
At  every  shadow  on  the  grass 

She  starts,  and  murmurs  with  a  sigh, 
"  He  will  return  —  I  know  him  well  ; 

He  would  not  leave  me  here  to  die.  " 


MOTHER  WEPT 

MOTHER  wept,  and  father  sigh'd ; 

With  delight  a-glow 
Cried  the  lad,  "  To-morrow,"  cried, 

"  To  the  pit  I  go." 

Up  and  down  the  place  he  sped, 

Greeted  old  and  young, 
Far  and  wide  the  tidings  spread, 

Clapp'd  his  hands  and  sung. 

Came  his  cronies,  some  to  gaze 

Rapt  in  wonder  ;  some 
Free  with  counsel  ;  some  with  praise  ; 

Some  with  envy  dumb. 


"  May  he,"  many  a  gossip  cried, 

"  Be  from  peril  kept  ;  " 
Father  hid  his  face  and  sighed, 
Mother  turned  and  wept. 

THE  DEWDROP 

AH,  be  not  vain.     In  yon  flower-bellj 
As  rare  a  pearl,  did  I  appear, 

As  ever  grew  in  ocean  shell, 
To  dangle  at  a  Helen's  ear. 

So  was  I  till  a  cruel  blast 

Arose  and  swept  me  to  the  groundt 
When,  in  the  jewel  of  the  past, 

Earth  but  a  drop  of  water  found. 


33° 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


THE   BUTTERFLY 

THE  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower 
The  urchin  chas'd  ;  and,  when  at  last 

He  caught  it  in  my  lady's  bower, 

He  cried,  "  Ha,  ha  !  "  and  held  it  fast. 


Awhile  he  laugh 'd,  but  soon  he  wept, 
When  looking  at  the  prize  he  'd  caught 

He  found  he  had  to  ruin  swept 
The  very  glory  he  had  sought. 


ftirfjarfc  43arnctt 


THE   ISLAND   OF   SHADOWS 

YES,  Cara  mine,  I  know  that  I  shall  stand 
Upon  the  seashore  soon, 

And  watch  the  waves  that  die  upon  the 

strand, 
And  the  immortal  moon. 

One    mew  will    hover   'mid    the    drowsy 
damp 

That  clogs  the  breezes  there, 
One  star  suspend  her  solitary  lamp, 

High  in  the  viewless  air. 

My  straining  eyes   will   mark    a    distant 
oar, 

Grazing  the  supple  sea, 
And  a  light  pinnace  speeding  to  the  shore, 

And  in  it  thou  wilt  be. 

The   empty  veins  with   life   no  more  are 
warm, 

The  eyes  no  longer  shine, 
The  pale  star  gazes  through  the  pallid  form, 

What  matter  ?  thou  art  mine. 

The  Love  which,  while  it  walk'd  the  earth, 

could  meet 

No  place  to  lay  its  head, 
Now  reigns  unchallenged  in  the  winding- 
sheet, 
Nor  fears  its  kindred  dead. 

For  Love   dwells  with  the  dead,  though 
more  sedate, 

Chasten'd,  and  mild  it  seems  ; 
While  Avarice,  Envy,  Jealousy,  and  Hate, 

With  them  are  only  dreams. 

I  step  into  the  boat,  our  steady  prore 
Furrows  the  still  moonlight ; 

The  sea  is  merry  with  our  plashing  oar, 
With  our  quick  rudder  white. 


No  word  has  pass'd  thy  lips,  but  yet  I  know 
Well  where  our  course  will  be  ; 

We  leave  the  worn-out  world  —  is  it  not 

so?  — 
The  uncorrupted  sea 

To  cross,  and  gain  some  isle  in  whose  sweet 

shade 

Even  Slavery  is  free  ; 
And  careless  Care  on  smoothest  rose-leaves 

laid 
Becomes  Tranquillity. 

Far,  far  the  haunts  where,  rob'd  in  gory 

weeds, 

Grim  War  his  court  doth  hold, 
And    mumbling    Superstition    counts    bis 

beads, 
And  Avarice  his  gold. 

But  Love  and  Death,  the  comrades  and  the 

twins, 

Uninterrupted  reign  ; 
Where   is   it  that   one   ends  and  one  be- 
gins ? 
And  are  they  one  or  twain  ? 

And  all  is  like  thy  soul,  pensive  and  fair, 
Veil'd  in  a  shadowy  dress, 

And  strewn  with  gems  more  rich  were  thej 

more  rare, 
And  steep'd  in  balminess. 

No  drossy  shape  of  earthliness  appears 
On  the  phantastic  coast, 

No  grosser  sound  strikes  the  attuned  ears 
Than  footfall  of  a  ghost. 

Seclusion,  quiet,  silence,  slumber,  dreams, 
No  murmur  of  a  breath  ; 

The  same  still  image   on  the   same   still 

streams, 
Of  Love  caressing  Death. 


RICHARD   GARNETT 


So    let    us    hasten,    Love  !      Our   steady 
prore 

Furrows  the  still  moonlight  ; 
The  sea  is  merry  with  our  plashing  oar, 

With  our  quick  rudder  white. 


THE   FAIR   CIRCASSIAN 

FORTY  Viziers  saw  I  go 
Up  to  the  Seraglio, 
Burning,  each  and  every  man, 
For  the  fair  Circassian. 

Ere  the  morn  had  disappear'd, 
Every  Vizier  wore  a  beard  ; 
Ere  the  afternoon  was  born, 
Every  Vizier  came  back  shorn. 

"  Let  the  man  that  woos  to  win 
Woo  with  an  unhairy  chin  ; " 
Thus  she  said,  and  as  she  bid 
Each  devoted  Vizier  did. 

From  the  beards  a  cord  she  made, 
Loop'd  it  to  the  balustrade, 
Glided  down  and  went  away 
To  her  own  Circassia. 

When  the  Sultan  heard,  wax'd  he 
Somewhat  wroth,  and  presently 
In  the  noose  themselves  did  lend 
Every  Vizier  did  suspend. 

Sages  all,  this  rhyme  who  read, 
Guard  your  beards  with  prudent  heed, 
And  beware  the  wily  plans 
Of  the  fair  Circassians. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   THE   BOAT 

THE  stream  was  smooth  as  glass,  we  said  : 

"  Arise  and  let 's  away  ;  " 
The  Siren  sang  beside  the  boat  that  in  the 

rushes  lay  ; 
And  spread  the  sail,  and  strong  the  oar,  we 

gaily  took  our  way. 
When   shall   the   sandy   bar  be    cross' d  ? 

When  shall  we  find  the  bay  ? 

The  broadening  flood  swells  slowly  out  o'er 

cattle-dotted  plains, 
The  stream  is  strong  and  turbulent,  and 

dark  with  heavy  rains, 


The  laborer  looks  up  to  see  our  shallop 

speed  away. 
When   shall   the    sandy   bar   be    cross'd  ? 

When  shall  we  find  the  bay  ? 

Now  are  the  clouds  like  fiery  shrouds  ;  the 

sun,  superbly  large, 
Slow  as  an  oak  to  woodman's  stroke  sinks 

flaming  at  their  marge. 
The  waves  are  bright  with  mirror'd  light 

as  jacinths  on  our  way. 
When   shall   the    sandy  bar  be    cross'd  ? 

When  shall  we  find  the  bay  ? 

The  moon  is  high  up  in  the  sky,  and  now 
no  more  we  see 

The  spreading  river's  either  bank,  and 
surging  distantly 

There  booms  a  sullen  thunder  as  of  break- 
ers far  away. 

Now  shall  the  sandy  bar  be  cross'd,  now 
shall  we  find  the  bay  ! 

The   seagull   shrieks   high  overhead,   and 

dimly  to  our  sight 
The  moonlit  crests  of  foaming  waves  gleam 

towering  through  the  night. 
We  '11  steal  upon  the  mermaid  soon,  and 

.    start  her  from  her  lay, 
When  once  the  sandy  bar  is  cross'd,  and 

we  are  in  the  bay. 

What  rises  white  and  awful  as  a  shroud- 
enfolded  ghost  ? 

What  roar  of  rampant  tumult  bursts  in 
clangor  on  the  coast  ? 

Pull  back !  pull  back  !  The  raging  flood 
sweeps  every  oar  away. 

O  stream,  is  this  thy  bar  of  sand  ?  O  boat, 
is  this  the  bay  ? 

THE   LYRICAL  POEM 

PASSION  the  fathomless  spring,  and  words 

the  precipitate  waters, 
Rhythm  the  bank  that  binds  these  to  their 

musical  bed. 


SOULLESS,  colorless  strain,  thy  words  are 

the  words  of  wisdom. 
Is  not  a  mule  a  mule,  bear  he  a  burden  of 

gold? 


332 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


ON  AN   URN 

BOTH  thou  and  I  alike,  my  Bacchic  urn, 
From  clay  are  sprung,  and  must  to  clay  re- 
turn ; 

But  happier  fate  this  day  is  mine  and  thine, 
For  I  am  full  of  life,  and  thou  of  wine  ; 
Our  powers  for  mutual  aid  united  be, 
Keep  thou  me  blithe,  and  flowing  I  '11  keep 
thee. 

AGE 

I  WILL  not  rail,  or  grieve  when  torpid  eld 
Frosts  the  slow-journeying  blood,  for  I  shall 

see 
The   lovelier  leaves   hang  yellow  on   the 

tree, 

The  nimbler  brooks  in  icy  fetters  held. 
Methinks  the  aged  eye,  that  first  beheld 
The  fitful  ravage  of  December  wild, 
Then  knew  himself  indeed  dear  Nature's 

child, 
Seeing   the   common  doom,  that  all  com- 

pell'd. 

No  kindred  we  to  her  beloved  broods, 
If,  dying  these,  we  drew  a  selfish  breath  ; 
But  one  path  travel  all  her  multitudes, 
And  none  dispute  the  solemn  Voice  that 

saith  : 


"  Sun,   to   thy  setting ;    to   your    autumn, 

woods  ; 
Stream,  to   thy   sea  ;  and  man,  unto   thy 

death  ! " 


TO   AMERICA 

AFTER    READING     SOME     UNGENEROUS 
CRITICISMS 

WHAT  though  thy  Muse  the  singer's  art 

essay 

With  lip  now  over-loud,  now  over-low  ? 
'T  is  but  the  augury  that  makes  her  so 
Of  the  high  things  she  hath  in  charge  to 

say. 

How  shall  the  giantess  of  gold  and  clay, 
Girt  with  two  oceans,  crown'd  with  Arctic 

snow, 

Sandall'd  with  shining  seas  of  Mexico, 
Be  par'd  to  trim  proportion  in  a  day  ? 
Thou  art  too  great  !  Thy  rnillion-billow'd 

surge 

Of  life  bewilders  speech,  as  shoreless  sea 
Confounds  the  ranging  eye  from  verge  to 

verge 

With  mazy  strife  or  smooth  immensity. 
Not  soon  or  easily  shall  thence  emerge 
A  Homer  or  a  Shakespeare  worthy  thee. 


9(o!)n  Cottyuntcr 


THE   BANSHEE 

GREEN,  in  the  wizard  arms 
Of  the  foam-bearded  Atlantic, 
An  isle  of  old  enchantment, 
A  melancholy  isle, 
Enchanted  and  dreaming  lies  : 
And  there,  by  Shannon's  flowing, 
In  the  moonlight,  spectre-thin, 
The  spectre  Erin  sits. 

An  aged  desolation, 

She  sits  by  old  Shannon's  flowing, 

A  mother  of  many  children, 

Of  children  exil'd  and  dead, 

In  her  home,  with  bent  head,  homeless, 

Clasping  her  knees  she  sits, 

Keening,  keening  ! 

And  at  her  keene  the  fairy-grass 
Trembles  on  dun  and  barrow  ; 


Around  the  foot  of  her  ancient  crosses 
The    grave-grass    shakes    and    the   nettle 

swings  ; 

In  haunted  glens  the  meadow-sweet 
Flings  to  the  night  wind 
Her  mystic  mournful  perfume  ; 
The  sad  spearmint  by  holy  wells 
Breathes  melancholy  balm. 
Sometimes  she  lifts  her  head, 
With  blue  eyes  tearless, 
And  gazes  athwart  the  reck  of  night 
Upon  things  long  past, 
Upon  things  to  come. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  moon 

Brings  tempest  upon  the  deep, 

And  rous'd   Atlantic   thunders    from    his 

caverns  in  the  west, 
The  wolfhound  at  her  feet 
Springs  up  with  a  mighty  bay, 


TODHUNTER  —  TYRWHITT 


333 


And  chords  of  mystery  sound   from  the 

wild  harp  at  her  side, 
Strung  from  the  heart  of  poets  ; 
And  she  flies  on  the  wings  of  tempest 
Around  her  shuddering  isle, 
With  gray  hair  streaming  : 
A  meteor  of  evil  omen, 
The  spectre  of  hope  forlorn, 
Keening,  keening  ! 

She  keenes,  and  the  strings  of  her  wild 

harp  shiver 
On  the  gusts  of  night  : 
O'er   the    four  waters    she  keenes  —  over 

Moyle  she  keenes, 
O'er  the  sea  of  Milith,  and  the  Strait  of 

Strongbow, 
And  the  Ocean  of  Columbus. 

Aud  the  Fianna  hear,  and  the  ghost  of  her 
cloudy  hovering  heroes  ; 


And  the  Swan,  Fianoula,  wails  o'er  the 
waters  of  Inisfail, 

Chanting  her  song  of  destiny, 

The  rune  of  the  weaving  Fates. 

And  the  nations  hear  in  the  void  and  quak- 
ing time  of  night, 

Sad  unto  dawning,  dirges, 

Solemn  dirges, 

And  snatches  of  bardic  song  ; 

Their  souls  quake  in  the  void  and  quaking 
time  of  night, 

And  they  dream  of  the  weird  of  kings, 

And  tyrannies  moulting,  sick 

In  the  dreadful  wind  of  change. 

Wail  no  more,  lonely  one,  mother  of  exiles, 

wail  no  more, 

Banshee  of  the  world  —  no  more  ! 
Thy  sorrows  are  the  world's,  thou  art  no 

more  alone  ; 
Thy  wrongs,  the  world's. 


THE   GLORY   OF   MOTION 

THREE  twangs  of  the  horn,  and  they  're  all 

out  of  cover  ! 
Must   brave   you,   old   bull-finch,  that 's 

right  in  the  way  ! 
A  rush,  and  a  bound,  and  a  crash,  and  I  'm 

over  ! 
They  're  silent   and  racing  and  for'ard 

away  ; 
Fly,  Charley,  my  darling  !     Away  and  we 

follow  ; 
There  's  no  earth  or  cover  for  mile  upon 

mile  ; 
We  're  wing'd  with  the  flight  of  the  stork 

and  the  swallow  ; 

The    heart   of   the  eagle  is  ours   for  a 
while. 

The    pasture-land    knows    not    of    rough 

plough  or  harrow  ! 
The  hoofs  echo  hollow  and  soft  on  the 

sward  ; 
The    soul    of    the    horses    goes    into    our 

marrow  ; 

My  saddle  's  a  kingdom,  and  I  am  its 
lord  : 


And  rolling  and  flowing  beneath  us  like 

ocean, 
Gray  waves  of  the  high  ridge  and  furrow 

glide  on, 

And  small  flying  fences  in  musical  motion, 
Before   us,  beneath   us,  behind   us,  are 
gone. 

O  puissant  of  bone  and  of  sinew  availing, 
On  thee  how  I  've  long'd  for  the  brooks 

and  the  showers  ! 

O  white-breasted  camel,  the  meek  and  un- 
failing, 
To  speed  through  the  glare  of  the  long 

desert  hours  ! 
And,  bright   little  barbs,  ye  make  worthy 

pretences 

To  go  with  the  going  of  Solomon's  sires  : 
But  you  stride  not  the  stride,  and  you  fly 

not  the  fences  ! 

And  all  the  wide  Hejaz  is  naught  to  the 
shires. 

O   gay  gondolier  !  from  thy  night-flitting 

shallop 

I  have  heard  the  soft  pulses  of  oar  and 
guitar  ; 


334 


BALLADISTS   AND   LYRISTS 


But  sweeter  the  rhythmical   rush  of  the 

gallop, 
The  fire  iu  the  saddle,  the  flight  of  the 

star. 
Old    mare,    my    beloved,    no    stouter    or 

faster 
Hath  ever  strode  under  a  man  at   his 

need  ; 
Be  glad  in  the  hand  and  embrace  of  thy 

master, 

And   pant  to  the  passionate   music   of 
speed. 


Can  there  e'er  "be  a  thought  to  an  elderly 

person 

So  keen,  so  inspiring,  so  hard  to  forget, 
So  fully  adapted  to  break  into  burgeon 
As  this  —  that  the  steel  is  n't  out  of  him 

yet; 
That  flying  speed  tickles  one's  brain  with  a 

feather  ; 
That  one's   horse   can  restore  one   the 

years  that  are  gone  ; 
That,    spite  of  gray  winter   and  weariful 

weather, 
The  blood  and  the  pace  carry  on,  carry  on? 


Clement  <&cott 


RUS    IN   URBE 


POETS  are  singing  the  whole  world  over 

Of  May  in  melody,  joys  for  June  ; 
Dusting  their  feet  in  the  careless  clover, 
And  filling  their  hearts  with  the  black- 
bird's tune. 
The  "  brown   bright   nightingale  "  strikes 

with  pity 

The  sensitive  heart  of  a  count  or  clown  ; 
But  where  is  the  song  for  our  leafy  city, 
And  where  the   rhymes   for   our   lovely 
town  ? 

"O    for    the    Thames,   and    its    rippling 

reaches, 
Where    almond     rushes,    and     breezes 

sport  ! 

Take  me  a  walk  under  Burnham  Beeches  ; 
Give  me  a  dinner  at  Hampton  Court  !  " 
Poets,  be  still,  though  your  hearts  I  harden  ; 
We  've  flowers  by  day  and  have  scents  at 

dark, 

The  limes  are  in  leaf  in  the  cockney  garden, 
And  lilacs  blossom  in  Regent's  Park. 

•'  Come  for  a  blow,"  says  a  reckless  fellow, 
Buru'd   red   and    brown    by   passionate 

sun  ; 
"Come  to  the  downs,  where  the  gorse  is 

yellow  ; 

The  season  of  kisses  has  just  begun  ! 
Come  to  the  fields  where  bluebells  shiver, 
Hear  cuckoo's  carol,  or  plaint  of  dove  ; 
Come  for  a  row  on  the  silent  river  ; 

Come    to   the    meadows    and    learn    to 
love ! " 


Yes,   I  will    come   when    this   wealth    is 

over 

Of  soften'd  color  and  perfect  tone  — 
The  lilac  's  better  than  fields  of  clover  ; 
I  '11    come    when    blossoming   May   has 

flown. 

When  dust  and  dirt  of  a  trampled  city 
Have     dragg'd     the    yellow    laburnum 

down, 

I  '11  take  my  holiday  —  more  's  the  pity  — 
And  turn  my  back  upon  London  town. 

Margaret  !  am  I  so  wrong  to  love  it, 

This  misty  town  that  your  face  shines 

through  ? 

A  crown  of  blossom  is  wav'd  above  it  ; 
But  heart  and  life   of  the  whirl  —  't  is 

you  ! 
Margaret !    pearl !    I    have     sought    and 

found  you  ; 
And,  though  the  paths  of  the  wind  are 

free, 
I  '11  follow  the  ways  of  the  world  around 

you, 
And  build  my  nest  on  the  nearest  tree  ! 


LILIAN   ADELAIDE    NEILSON 
WHAT  shall  my  gift  be  to  the  dead  one 


Wrapp'd  in  the  mantle  of    her  mother 

earth  ? 
No  tear,  no  voice,  no  prayer,  or  any  sigh- 

ing. 

Gives  back  her  face  made  beautiful  by 
birth. 


CLEMENT   SCOTT  — SARAH   WILLIAMS 


335 


Honor   was   due  to   one    whose   soul   was 

tender, 
Whose  nature  quicken'd  at  the  touch  of 

art  ; 
Now  that  the  struggle  's  over,  God  will  send 

her 

Mercy  and  peace  to  soothe  her  troubled 
heart. 

Tears  will  be  shed  ;  for  who  dare  raise  the 

finger 

Of  scorn  when  all  is  buried  in  the  grave  ? 
Some  pity  near  her  memory  will  linger  : 
Upon   life's  stormy   sea   she   toss'd  —  a 
wave  ! 

Life's  weary  hill  she  bravely  fell  in  breast- 
ing. 

Her   work    was    done ;  "  Oh,   take    me 
home,"  she  sighs  ; 


Whisper  it  low,   she   sleeps  not,  "  she   is 

resting,"  - 
So  fell  the  curtain,  and  she  clos'd  her  eyes. 

The  flowers  she  lov'd  will  deck  the  cross 

that  shows  us 
Where  all  remains  of  what  was  once  so 

fair. 
Yes  !  she  is  dead,  but  still,  perhaps,  she 

knows  us 

Who    say   "  Implora    pace  ! "   for    oar 
prayer. 

They  gave    love's   playthings,    who   were 

wont  to  win  her, 

As  Juliet  coax'd  to  happiness  her  nurse  ; 
But  I,  who  knew  the  goodness  that  was  in 

her, 

Place  humbly  on  her  grave  —  this  leaf  of 
verse  ! 


OMAR   AND   THE   PERSIAN 

THE  victor  stood  beside  the  spoil,  and  by 

the  grinning  dead  : 
"  The    laud    is  ours,  the  foe  is  ours,  now 

rest,  my  men,  "  he  said. 
But  while  he  spoke  there  came  a  band  of 

foot-sore,  panting  men  : 
"  The    latest   prisoner,  my    lord,  we  took 

him  in  the  glen, 
And   left   behind    dead    hostages  that  we 

would  come  again." 

The  victor  spoke  :  "  Thou,    Persian    dog  ! 

hast  cost  more  lives  than  thine. 
That  was  thy  will,   and  thou  shouldst  die 

full  thrice,  if  I  had  mine. 
Dost  know  thy  fate,    thy  just    reward  ?  " 

The  Persian  bent  his  head, 
"  I  know  both  sides  of  victory,  and  only 

grieve,"  he  said, 
"  Because    there    will    be    none    to    fight 

'gainst  thee  when  I  am  dead. 

"  No  Persian  faints  at  sight  of  Death,  —  we 
know  his  face  too  well,  — 

He  waits  for  us  on  mountain  side,  in  town, 
or  shelter'd  dell ; 


But  I  crave  a  cup  of  wine,  thy  first  and 

latest  boon, 
For  I   have  gone  three   days  athirst,  and 

fear  lest  I  may  swoon, 
Or  even  wrong  mine  enemy,  by  dying  now, 

too  soon." 

The  cup  was  brought  ;  but  ere  he  drank 

the  Persian  shudder'd  white. 
Omar  replied,  "  What  fearest  thou  ?     The 

wine  is  clear  and  bright ; 
We  are  no  poisoners,  not  we,  nor  traitors 

to  a  guest, 
No  dart    behind,    nor    dart   within,    shall 

pierce  thy  gallant  breast  ; 
Till  thou  hast  drain'd  the  draught,  O  foe, 

thou  dost  in  safety  rest." 

The  Persian  smil'd,  with  parched  lips,  upon 

the  foemen  round, 
Then  pour'd    the  precious  liquid  out,  un- 

tasted,  on  the  ground. 
"  Till  that  is  drunk,  I  live,"  said  he,  "  and 

while  I  live,  I  fight  ; 
So,  see  you  to  your  victory,  for  't  is  undone 

this  night  ; 
Omar  the  worthy,  battle   fair  is  but   thy 

god-like  right." 


336 


BALLADISTS    AND   LYRISTS 


Upsprang  a  wrathful  army  then,  —  Omar 

restrain'd  them  all, 
Upon  no  battle-field  had  rung  more  clear 

his  martial  call, 
The  dead  men's  hair  beside  his  feet  as  by  a 

breeze  was  stirr'd, 


The   farthest   henchman  in  the   camp  the 

noble  mandate  heard  : 
"  Hold  !  if  there    be  a  sacred  thing,  it   is 

the  warrior's  word." 


ir  Waiter 


TO   DAPHNE 

LIKE  apple-blossom,  white  and  red  ; 

Like    hues     of    dawn,    which     fly    too 

soon  ; 
Like  bloom  of  peach,  so  softly  spread  ; 

Like  thorn  of  May  and  rose  of  June  — 
Oh,  sweet !  oh,  fair  !  beyond  compare, 

Are  Daphne's  cheeks, 
Are  Daphne's  blushing  cheeks,  I  swear. 

That  pretty  rose,  which  conies  and  goes 
Like  April  sunshine  in  the  sky, 


I  can  command  it  when  I  choose  — 

See  how  it  rises  if  I  cry. 
Oh,  sweet !  oh,  fair  !  beyond  compare, 

Are  Daphne's  cheeks, 
Are  Daphne's  blushing  cheeks,  I  swear. 

Ah  !  when  it  lies  round  lips  and  eyes, 
And  fades  away,  again  to  spring, 

No  lover,  sure,  could  ask  for  more 
Than  still  to  cry,  and  still  to  sing: 

Oh,  sweet !  oh,  fair  !   beyond  compare, 
Are  Daphne's  cheeks, 

Are  Daphne's  blushing  cheeks,  I  swear. 


SONNET 

(SUGGESTED  BY  MR.  WATTS'S  PICTURE  OF  LOVE 
AND  DEATH) 

YEA,  Love  is  strong  as  life  ;  he  casts  out 

fear, 
And  wrath,  and  hate,  and  all  our  envious 

foes  ; 

He  stands  upon  the  threshold,  quick  to  close 
The  gate  of  happiness  ere  should  appear 
Death's  dreaded  presence  —  ay,  but  Death 

draws  near, 
And  large  and   gray  the  towering  outline 

grows, 
Whose  face  is  veil'd  and  hid  ;  and  yet  Love 

knows 
lull  well,  too  well,  alas  !    that    Death    is 

here. 
Death  tramples  ou  the  roses  ;  Death  comes 

in, 
Though  Love,  with  outstretch'd  arms  and 

wings  outspread, 


Would   bar  the  way  —  poor   Love,  whose 

wings  begin 

To  droop,  half-torn  as  are  the  roses  dead 
Already  at  his  feet  —  but  Death  must  win, 
And  Love  grows  faint  beneath  that  ponder- 
ous tread ! 


MY   HEART   IS    A    LUTE 

ALAS,  that  my  heart  is  a  lute, 

Whereon  you  have  learn'd  to  play  ! 

For  a  many  years  it  was  mute, 

Until  one  summer's  day 
You  took  it,  and  touch'd  it,  and  made  it 

thrill, 
And  it  thrills  and  throbs,  and  quivers  still  i 

I  had  known  you,  dear,  so  long  ! 
Yet  my  heart  did  not  tell  me  why 
It  should  burst  one  morn  into  song- 
And  wake  to  new  life  with  a  cry, 


LADY   LINDSAY— HAKE 


337 


Like  a  babe  that  sees  the  light  of  the  sun, 
And  for  whom  this  great  world   has  just 
begun. 

Your  lute  is  enshrin'd,  cas'd  in, 
Kept  close  with  love's  magic  key, 


So  no  hand  but  yours  can  win 
And  wake  it  to  minstrelsy  ; 
Yet   leave    it    not    silent    too    long,   nor 

alone, 

Lest    the  strings  should  break,  and    the 
music  be  done. 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


OLD   SOULS 

THE  world,  not  hush'd,  lay  as  in  trance  ; 

It  saw  the  future  in  its  van, 
And  drew  its  riches  in  advance 

To  meet  the  greedy  wants  of  man  ; 
Till  length  of  days,  untimely  sped, 
Left  its  account  unaudited. 

The  sun,  untir'd,  still  rose  and  set,  — 

Swerv'd  not  an  instant  from  its  beat  ; 

It  had  not  lost  a  moment  yet, 

Nor  used  in  vain  its  light  and  heat  ; 

But,  as  in  trance,  from  when  it  rose 

To  when  it  sank,  man  crav'd  repose. 

A  holy  light  that  shone  of  yore 

He  saw,  despis'd ,  and  left  behind  : 

His  heart  was  rotting  to  the  core 

Lock'd  in  the  slumbers  of  the  mind  : 

Not  beat  of  drum,  nor  sound  of  fife, 

Could  rouse  it  to  a  sense  of  life. 

A  cry  was  heard,  inton'd  and  slow, 

Of  one  who  had  no  wares  to  vend  : 

His  words  were  gentle,  duil,  and  low, 

And    he    call'd    out,    "  Old    souls    to 
mend  ! " 

He  peddled  on  from  door  to  door, 

And  look'd  not  up  to  rich  or  poor. 

His  step  kept  on  as  if  in  pace 

With  some  old  timepiece  in  his  head, 
Nor  ever  did  its  way  retrace  ; 

Nor  right  nor  left  turn'd  he  his  tread, 
But  utter'd  still  his  tinker's  cry 
To  din  the  ears  of  passers-by. 


So  well  they  knew  the  olden  note 

Few  heeded  what  the  tinker  spake, 

Though  here  and  there  an  ear  it  smote 
And  seem'd  a  sudden  hold  to  take  ; 

But  they  had  not  the  time  to  stay, 

And  it  would  do  some  other  day. 

Still  on  his  way  the  tinker  wends, 

Though  jobs  be  far  between  and  few  ; 

But  here  and  there  a  soul  he  mends 
And  makes  it  look  as  good  as  new. 

Once  set  to  work,  once  fairly  hir'd, 

His  dull  old  hammer  seems  iuspir'd. 

Over  the  task  his  features  glow  ; 

He  knocks  away  the  rusty  flakes  ; 
A  spark  flies  off  at  every  blow  ; 

At  every  rap  new  life  awakes. 
The  soul  once  cleans'd  of  outward  sins, 
His  subtle  handicraft  begins. 

Like  iron  unanneal'd  and  crude, 

The  soul  is  plunged  into  the  blast  ; 

To  temper  it,  however  rude, 

'T  is  next  in  holy  water  cast  5 

Then  on  the  anvil  it  receives 

The  nimblest  stroke  the  tinker  gives. 

The  tinker's  task  is  at  an  end  : 

Stamp'd  was  the  cross  by  that  last  blow 
Again  his  cry,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  !  " 

Is  heard  in  accents  dull  and  low. 
He  pauses  not  to  seek  his  pay,  — 
That  too  will  do  another  day. 

One  stops  and  says,  "  This  soul  of  mine 
Has  been  a  tidy  piece  of  ware, 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


But  rust  and  rot  in  it  combine, 

And  now  corruption  lays  it  bare. 
'Give  it  a  look  :  there  was  a  day 
When  it  the  morning  hymn  could  say." 

The  tinker  looks  into  his  eye, 

And  there  detects  besetting  sin, 

The  decent  old-establish'd  lie, 

That   creeps   through   all   the    chinks 
within. 

Lank  are  its  tendrils,  thick  its  shoots, 

And  like  a  worm's  nest  coil  the  roots. 

Like  flowers  that  deadly  berries  bear, 
His  seed,  if  tended  from  the  pod, 

Had  grown  in  beauty  with  the  year, 
Like  deodara  drawn  to  God  ; 

Now,  like  a  dank  and  curly  brake, 

It  fosters  venom  for  the  snake. 

The  tinker  takes  the  weed  in  tow, 

And  roots  it  out  with  tooth  and  nail  ; 

His  labor  patient  to  bestow, 

Lest  like  the  herd  of  men  he  fail. 

How  best  to  extirpate  the  weed 

Has  grown  with  him  into  a  creed. 

His  tack  is  steady,  slow,  and  sure  : 

He  plucks  it  out,  despite  the  howl, 

With  gentle  hand  and  look  demure, 
As  cunning  maiden  draws  a  fowl. 

He  knows  the  job  he  is  about, 

And  pulls  till  all  the  lie  is  out. 

"  Now  steadfastly  regard  the  man 

Who  wrought  your  cure  of   rust  and 
rot! 

You  saw  him  ere  the  work  began  : 
Is  he  the  same,  or  is  he  not  ? 

You  saw  the  tinker  ;  now  behold 

The  Envoy  of  a  God  of  old." 

This  said,  he  on  the  forehead  stamps 

The  downward  stroke  and  one  across, 

Then  straight  upon  his  way  he  tramps  ; 
His  time  for  profit,  not  for  loss  ; 

His  task  no  sooner  at  an  end 

Than  out  he  cries,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  ! " 

As  night  comes  on  he  enters  doors, 
He  crosses  halls,  he  goes  upstairs, 

He  reaches  first  and  second  floors, 
Still  busied  on  his  own  affairs. 

None  stop  him  or  a  question  ask  ; 

None  heed  the  workman'at  his  task. 


Despite  his  cry,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  !  " 
Which  into  dull  expression  breaks, 

Not  mov'd  are  they,  nor  ear  they  lend 
To  him  who  from  old  habit  speaks  ; 

Yet  does  the  deep  and  one-ton'd  cry 

Send  thrills  along  eternity. 

He  gads  where  out-door  wretches  walk, 
Where  outcasts  under  arches  creep  ; 

Among  them  holds  his  simple  talk. 

He  lets  them  hear  him  in  their  sleep. 

They  who  his  name  have  still  denied, 

He  lets  them  see  him  crucified. 

On  royal  steps  he  takes  a  stand 

To  light  the  beauties  to  the  ball  ; 

He  holds  a  lantern  in  his  hand, 

And  lets  this  simple  saying  fall. 

They  deem  him  but  some  sorry  wit 

Serving  the  Holy  Spirit's  writ. 

They  know  not  souls  can  rust  and  rot, 

And  deem  him,  while  he  says  his  say, 

The  tipsy  watchman  who  forgot 

To  call  out,  "  Carriage  stops  the  way  !  " 

They  know  not  what  it  can  portend, 

This  mocking  cry,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  ! " 

While  standing  on  the  palace  stone, 
He  is  in  workhouse,  brothel,  jail  ; 

He  is  to  play  and  ball-room  gone, 
To  hear  again  the  beauties  rail  ; 

With  tender  pity  to  behold 

The  dead  alive  in  pearls  and  gold. 

In  meaning  deep,  in  whispers  low 
As  bubble  bursting  on  the  air, 

He  lets  the  solemn  warning  flow 

Through  jewell'd  ears  of  creatures  fair, 

Who,  while  they  dance,  their  paces  blend 

With  his  mild  words,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  !  " 

And  when  to  church  their  sins  they  take, 
And  bring  them  back  to  lunch  again, 

And  fun  of  empty  sermons  make, 

He  whispers  softly  in  their  train  ; 

And  sits  with  them  if  two  or  more 

Think  of  a  promise  made  of  yore.    - 

Of  those  who  stay  behind  to  sup, 

And  in  remembrance  eat  the  bread, 

He  leads  the  conscience  to  the  cup, 
His  hands  across  the  table  spread. 

When  contrite  hearts  before  him  bend, 

Glad  are  his  words,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  !* 


THOMAS   GORDON   HAKE 


339 


The  little  ones  before  the  font 

He  clasps 'within  his  arms  to  bless  ; 

For  Childhood's  pure  and  guileless  front 
Smiles  back  his  own  sweet  gentleness. 

"  Of  such,"  he  says,  "  my  kingdom  is, 

For  they  betray  not  with  a  kiss." 

He  goes  to  hear  the  vicars  preach  : 

They  do  not  always  know  his  face, 

Him  they  pretend  the  way  to  teach, 
And,  as  one  absent,  ask  his  grace. 

Not  then  his  words,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  ! " 

Their  spirits  pierce  or  bosoms  rend. 

He  goes  to  see  the  priests  revere 
His  image  as  he  lay  in  death  : 

They  do  not  know  that  he  is  there  ; 
They  do  not  feel  his  living  breath, 

Though  to  his  secret  they  pretend 

With  incense  sweet,  old  souls  to  mend. 

He  goes  to  hear  the  grand  debate 

That  makes  his  own  religion  law  ; 

But  him  the  members,  as  he  sate 
Below  the  gangway,  never  saw. 

They  us'd  his  name  to  serve  their  end, 

And  others  left  old  souls  to  mend. 

Before  the  church-exchange  he  stands, 

Where  those  who  buy  and  sell  him,  meet : 

He  sees  his  livings  changing  hands, 

And  shakes  the  dust  from  off  his  feet. 

Maybe  his  weary  head  he  bows, 

While  from  his  side  fresh  ichor  flows. 

From  mitred  peers  he  turns  his  face. 

Where  priests  convok'd  in  session  plot, 
He  would  remind  them  of  his  grace 

But  for  his  now  too  humble  lot  ; 
So  his  dull  cry  on  ears  devout 
He  murmurs  sadly  from  without. 

He  goes  where  judge  the  law  defends, 
And  takes  the  life  he  can't  bestow, 

And  soul  of  sinner  recommends 

To  grace  above,  but  not  below  ; 

Reserving  for  a  fresh  surprise 

Whom  it  shall  meet  in  Paradise. 

He  goes  to  meeting,  where  the  saint 
Exempts  himself  from  deadly  ire, 

But  in  a  strain  aclmir'd  and  quaint 
Consigns  all  others  to  the  fire, 

While  of  the  damn'd  he  mocks  the  howl, 

And  on  the  tinker  drops  his  scowl. 


Go  here,  go  there,  they  cite  his  word, 
While  he  himself  is  nigh  forgot. 

He  hears  them  use  the  name  of  Lord, 

He  present  though  they  know  him  not. 

Though  he  be  there,  they  vision  lack, 

And  talk  of  him  behind  his  back. 

Such  is  the  Church  and  such  the  State. 

Both  set  him  up  and  put  him  down, — 
Below  the  houses  of  debate, 

Above  the  jewels  of  the  crown. 
But  when  "  Old  souls  to  mend  ! "  he  says, 
They  send  him  off  about  his  ways. 

He  is  the  humble,  lowly  one, 

In  coat  of  rusty  velveteen, 
Who  to  his  daily  work  has  gone  ; 

In  sleeves  of  lawn  not  ever  seen. 
No  mitre  on  his  forehead  sticks  : 
His  crown  is  thorny,  and  it  pricks. 

On  it  the  dews  of  mercy  shine  ; 

From  heaven  at  dawn  of  day  they  fell ; 
And  it  he  wears  by  right  divine, 

Like  earthly  kings,  if  truth  they  tell ; 
And  up  to  heaven  the  few  to  send, 
He  still  cries  out,  "  Old  souls  to  mend  ! " 


THE    SIBYL 

A  MAID  who  mindful  of  her  playful  time 
Steps  to  her  summer,  bearing  childhood 
on 

To  woman's  beauty,  heedless  of  her  prime  : 
The  early  day  but  not  the  pastime  gone  : 

She  is  the  Sibyl,  uttering  a  doom 

Out  of  her  spotless  bloom. 

She  is  the  Sibyl;  seek  not,  then,  her  voice  ;  — 
A  laugh,  a  song,  a  sorrow,  but  thy  share, 
With  woes  at  hand  for  many  who  rejoice 
That  she  shall  utter  ;   that   shall  many 

hear  ; 
That  warn  all  hearts  who  seek  of  her  their 

fates, 
Her  love  but  one  awaits. 

She  is  the  Sibyl  ;  days  that  distant  lie 
Bend  to  the  promise  that  her  word  shall 
give  ; 

Already  has  she  eyes  that  prophesy, 
For  of  her  beauty  shall  all  beauty  live  : 

Unknown  to  her,  in  her  slow  opening  bloom, 

She  turns  the  leaves  of  doom. 


340 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


FROM  HIS  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE 
RUBAlYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 

OVERTURE 

WAKE  !     For  the  Sun  who  scatter'd  into 

flight 
The  stars  before   him   from   the   field   of 

night, 
Drives    night    along    with    them    from 

Heav'n,  and  strikes 
The  Sultan's  turret  with  a  shaft  of  light. 

Before  the  phantom  of  false  morning  died, 

Methought  a  Voice  within  the  tavern  cried, 

"  When     all     the    temple    is    prepar'd 

within, 
Why  nods  the  drowsy  worshipper  outside  ?  " 

And,  as  the  Cock  crew,  those  who  stood 

before 
The    tavern    shouted  — "  Open    then  the 

door ! 
You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to 

stay, 
And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more." 

PARADISE    ENOW 

With  me  along  the  strip  of  herbage  strown 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown, 
Where  name  of  slave  and  sultan  is  for- 
got — 

And  peace    to    Mdhmud    on    his    golden 
throne  ! 

A  book  of  verses  underneath  the  bough, 
A  ]ug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread  —  and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness  — « 
Oh,  wilderness  were  Paradise  enow  ! 

Some  for  the  glories  of  this  world  ;  and 

some 

Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come  ; 
Ah,  take  the  cash,  and  let  the  credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  drum  ! 

Look  to  the  blowing  Rose  about  us  —  "  Lo, 
Laughing,"  she    says,  "  into   the    world  I 

blow, 

At  once  the  silken  tassel  of  my  purse 
Tear,  and  its  treasure  on  the  garden  throw." 


And  those  who  husbanded  the  golden  grain, 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  winds  like 

rain, 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  earth  are  turu'd 
As,  buried  once,  men  want  dug  up  again. 

The    worldly   hope  men   set    their   hearts 

upon 
Turns  ashes  —  or  it  prospers  ;  and  anon, 

Like  snow  upon  the  desert's  dusty  face, 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two  —  was  gone. 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  caravanserai 
Whose   portals    are    alternate   Night   and 

Day, 

How  Sultfln  after  Sultdn  with  his  pomp 
Abode   his    destin'd    hour,   and   went    his 

way. 

They  say  the  lion  and  the  lizard  keep 
The  courts   where   Jamshyd   gloried   and 

drank  deep  : 
And   Bahrdm,  that   great   hunter  —  the 

wild  ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  head,  but  cannot  break  his 

sleep. 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  rose  as  where  some  buried  Csesar  bled  ; 

That  every  hyacinth  the  garden  wears 
Dropp'd  in  her  lap  from  some  once  lovely 
head. 

And  this  reviving  herb  whose  tender  green 
Fledges  the  river-lip  on  which  we  lean  — 

Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly  !  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  lip  it  springs  un- 
seen ! 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  cup  that  clears 
To-day  of  past  regrets  and  future  fears : 

To-morrow  1  —  Why  to-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself   with   Yesterday's   sev'n    thousand 
years. 

For  some  we  lov'd,  the  loveliest  and  the 
best 

That  from   his  vintage  rolling  Time  has 

prest, 

Have  drunk  their  cup  a  round  or  two  be- 
fore, 

And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  rest. 


EDWARD   FteCERALD 


341 


And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  room 
They    left,   and  Summer   dresses    in    new 

bloom, 
Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  couch  of 

earth 
Descend  —  ourselves  to  make  a  couch  — 

for  whom  ? 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may 

spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  dust  descend; 

Dust  into  dust,  and  under  dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  wine,  sans  song,  sans  singer,  and  — 

sans  end  ! 

THE    MASTER-KNOT 

Up     from    Earth's    centre     through     the 

Seventh  Gate 
I  rose,  and  on  the  throne  of  Saturn  sate, 

And  many  a  knot  unravell'd  by  the  road  ; 
But  not  the  master-knot  of  human  fate. 

There  was  the  door  to  which  I  found  no  key  ; 
There  was  the  veil  through  which  I  could 

not  see  ; 

Some  little  talk  awhile  of  Me  and  Thee 
There  was  —  and  then  no  more  of  Thee 

and  Me. 

Earth  could  not  answer  ;  nor  the  seas  that 

mourn 

In  flowing  purple,  of  their  Lord  forlorn  ; 
Nor  rolling  Heaven,  with  all  his  signs 

reveal'd 
And  hidden  by  the  sleeve  of  night  and  morn. 

Then  of  the  Thee  in  Me  who  works  behind 
The  veil,  I  lifted  up  my  hands  to  find 

A  lamp  amid  the  darkness  ;  and  I  heard, 
As  from  Without  —  "  The  Me  within  Thee 
blind ! " 

Then  to  the  lip  of  this  poor  earthen  urn 
I  lean'd,  the  secret  of  my  life  to  learn  : 
And  lip  to  lip  it  murmur'd  —  "  While 

you  live, 
Drink  !  —  for,  once  dead,  you  never  shall 

return." 

I  think  the  Vessel,  that  with  fugitive 
Articulation  answer'd,  once  did  live, 

And  drink  ;    and  ah  !   the  passive  lip  I 

kiss'd, 
How  many  kisses  might  it  take  —  and  give  ! 


For  I  remember  stopping  by  the  way 

To  watch  a  Potter  thumping  his  wet  Clay : 

And  with  its  all-obliterated  tongue 
It  murmur'd  —  "  Gently,  brother,  gently, 
pray ! " 

Listen  —  a  moment  listen  !  —  Of  the  same 
Poor  earth  from  which  that  human  whispei 

came 
The  luckless  mould  in  which  mankind 

was  cast 
They  did  compose,  and  call'd  him  by  the 

name. 

And  not  a  drop  that  from   our  cups  we 

throw 

For  earth  to  drink  of,  but  may  steal  below 
To  quench  the  fire  of  anguish  in  some 

eye 
There  hidden  —  far  beneath,  and  long  ago. 

THE    PHANTOM    CARAVAN 

And  if  the  wine  you  drink,  the  lip  you 
press, 

End  in  what  all  begins  and  ends  in  —  Yes  ; 
Think  then  you  are  To-day  what  Yester- 
day 

You  were  —  To-morrow  you  shall  not  be 
less. 

So  when  the  Angel  of  the  darker  drink 
At  last  shall  find  you  by  the  river-brink, 
And,  offering  his  cup,  invite  your  Soul 
Forth  to  your  lips  to  quaff  —  you  shall  not 
shrink. 

Why,  if  the  Soul  can  fling  the  dust  aside, 
And  naked  on  the  air  of  Heaven  ride, 
Wer  't  not  a  shame  —  wer  't  not  a  shame 

for  him 
In  this  clay  carcase  crippled  to  abide  ? 

'T  is  but  a  tent  where  takes  his  one-day's 

rest 

A  Sultan  to  the  realm  of  Death  addrest  ; 

The  Sultan  rises,  and  the  dark  Ferrash 

Strikes,  and  prepares  it  for  another  guest. 

And  fear  not  lest  existence  closing  your 
Account,  and  mine,  should  know  the  like 

no  more  ; 
The   Eternal  Saki  from  that  bowl  has 

pour'd 
Millions  of  bubbles  like  us,  and  will  pour. 


342 


When  you  and  I  behind  the  veil  are  past, 
Oh  but  the  long  long  while  the  world  shall 

last, 

Which  of  our  coming  and  departure  heeds 
As  the  Sev'n  Seas  should  heed  a  pebble- 
cast. 

A  moment's  halt  —  a  momentary  taste 
Of  Being  from  the  well  amid  the  waste  — 
And    lo !  —  the    phantom    caravan    has 

reach'd 
The  Nothing  it  set  out  from  —  Oh,  make 

haste  f 

THE    MOVING    FINGER    WRITES 

I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  invisible, 
Some  letter  of  that  after-life  to  spell  : 

And  by  and  by  my  Soul  return'd  to  me, 
And  answer'd  "I  myself  am  Heav'n  and 
Hell." 

Heav'n  but  the  vision  of  fulflll'd  desire, 
And  Hell  the  shadow  of  a  soul  on  fire, 
Cast  on   the  darkness   into  which   our- 
selves, 
So  late  emerged  from,  shall  so  soon  expire. 

We  are  no  other  than  a  moving  row 
Of  magic  shadow-shapes  that  come  and  go 
Round   with   this   sun-illumin'd   lantern 

held 
In  midnight  by  the  Master  of  the  Show; 

Impotent  pieces  of  the  game  He  plays 
Upon   this    checker-board    of  nights  and 

days  ; 
Hither  and  thither  moves,  and  checks, 

and  slays, 
And  one  by  one  back  in  the  closet  lays. 

The  ball  no  question  makes  of  ayes  and  noes 

But  right  or  left  as  strikes  the  Player  goes  ; 

And  He  that  toss'd  you  down  into  the 

field, 
He  knows  about  it  all  —  HE  knows  —  HE 

knows ! 

The  Moving  Finger  writes  ;  and,  having 

writ, 
Moves  on  :  nor  all  your  piety  nor  wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  line, 
Nor  all  your  tears  wash  out  a  word  of  it. 


And  that  inverted  bowl  they  call  the  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and 

die, 
Lift  not  your  hands  to  It  for  help  —  for 

It 
As  impotently  rolls  as  you  or  I. 

AND    YET  —  AND   YET! 

Yet  ah,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the 

rose  ! 
That    Youth's     sweet-scented    manuscript 

should  close  ! 
The  nightingale   that    in    the   branches 

sang, 
Ah  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who 

knows  ! 

Would  but  the  desert  of  the  fountain  yield 
One   glimpse  —  if  dimly,  yet   indeed,  re- 

veal'd, 
To  which  the  fainting  traveller   might 

spring, 
As  springs  the   trampled  herbage  of  the 

field! 

Would  but  some  winged  Angel  ere  too  late 
Arrest  the  yet  unfolded  roll  of  fate, 

And  make  the  stern  Recorder  otherwise 
Enregister,  or  quite  obliterate  ! 

Ah  Love  !  could  you  and  I  with  Him  con- 
spire 

To  grasp  this  sorry  scheme  of  things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits —  and 
then 

Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire  ! 


Yon  rising  moon  that  looks  for  us  again  — 
How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane  ; 

How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  garden  —  and  for  one 
in  vain ! 

And  when  like  her,  oh  Sdki,  you  shall  pass 
Among   the   guests   star-scatter'd   on   the 

grass, 
And  in  your  blissful  errand  reach  the 

spot 
Where  I  made  one  —  turn  down  an  empty 

glass ! 


343 


SONG   FROM   "PARACELSUS" 

OVER  the  sea  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave, 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave  — 

A  gallant  armament : 
Each  bark  built  out  of  a  forest-tree, 

Left  leafy  and  rough  as  first  it  grew, 
And  nail'd  all  over  the  gaping  sides, 
Within  and  without,  with  black-bull  hides, 
Seeth'd  in  fat  and  suppled  in  flame, 
To  bear  the  playful  billow's  game  ; 
So  each  good  ship  was  rude  to  see, 
Rude  and  bare  to  the  outward  view, 

But  each  upbore  a  stately  tent ; 
Where  cedar-pales  in  scented  row 
Kept  out  the  flakes  of  the  dancing  brine  : 
And  an  awning  droop'd  the  mast  below, 
In  fold  on  fold  of  the  purple  fine, 
That  neither  noontide,  nor  star-shine, 
Nor  moonlight  cold  which  maketh  mad, 

Might  pierce  the  regal  tenement. 
When  the  sun  dawn'd,  oh,  gay  and  glad 
We  set  the  sail  and  plied  the  oar  ; 
But  when  the  uight-wiiid  blew  like  breath, 
For  joy  of  one  day's  voyage  more, 
We  sang  together  on  the  wide  sea, 
Like  men  at  peace  on  a  peaceful  shore  ; 
Each  sail  was  loos'd  to  the  wind  so  free, 
Each  helm  made  sure  by  the  twilight  star, 
And  in  a  sleep  as  calm  as  death, 
We,  the  strangers  from  afar, 

Lay  stretch'd  along,  each  weary  crew 
In  a  circle  round  its  wondrous  tent, 
Whence  gleam'd  soft  light  and  curl'd  rich 
scent, 

And,  with  light  and  perfume, music  too  : 
So  the  stars  wheel'd  round,  and  the  darkness 

past, 

And  at  morn  we  started  beside  the  mast, 
And  still  each  ship  was  sailing  fast  ! 

One  morn,  the  land  appear'd  !  —  a  speck 
Dim  trembling  betwixt  sea  and  sky  — 
Avoid  it,  cried  our  pilot,  check 

The  shout,  restrain  the  longing  eye  ! 
But  the  heaving  sea  was  black  behind 
For  many  a  night  and  many  a  day, 
And  land,  though  but  a  rock,  drew  nigh  ; 
So  we  broke  the  cedar  pales  away, 
Let  the  purple  awning  flap  in  the  wind, 

And  a  statue  bright  was  on  every  deck  ! 


We  shouted,  every  man  of  us, 

And  steer'd  right  into  the  harbor  thus, 

With  pomp  and  psean  glorious. 

An  hundred  shapes  of  lucid  stone  ! 

All  day  we  built  a  shrine  for  each  — 
A  shrine  of  rock  for  every  one  — 
Nor  paus'd  we  till  in  the  westering  sun 

We  sate  together  on  the  beach 
To  sing,  because  our  task  was  done  ; 
When  lo  !  what  shouts  and  merry  songs ! 
What  laughter  all  the  distance  stirs  ! 
What  raft  comes  loaded  with  its  throngs 
Of  gentle  islanders  ? 
"  The  isles  are  just  at  hand,"  they  cried  ; 

"  Like  cloudlets  faint  at  even  sleeping, 
Our  temple-gates  are  open'd  wide, 

Our  olive-groves  thick  shade  are  keep- 
ing 
For  the   lucid  shapes  you  bring "  —  they 

cried. 

Oh,  then  we  awoke  with  sudden  start 
From  our  deep  dream  ;  we  knew,  too  late, 
How  bare  the  rock,  how  desolate, 
To  which  we  had  flung  our  precious  freight : 

Yet  we  call'd  out  —  "  Depart  ! 
Our  gifts,  once  given,  must  here  abide  : 

Our  work  is  done  ;  we  have  no  heart 
To  mar  our  work,  though  vain  "  —  we  cried. 

CAVALIER   TUNES 
I 

MARCHING   ALONG 

KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing  : 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  honest  folk 

droop, 

Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  songi 

God  for  King  Charles  !  Pym  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  trea- 
sonous paries  ! 

Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 
Till  you  're  — 

(Chorus) 

Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong. 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 


344 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry 

as  well ! 

England,  good  cheer  !     Rupert  is  near  ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 

( Chorus) 

Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  ? 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles  !     Pym  and 

his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent 

carles  ! 

Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might  ; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the 
fight, 

(Chorus") 

March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  I 

II 

GIVE  A   ROUSE 

KING  CHARLES,  and  who'll  do  him  right 

now  ? 
King  Charles,  and   who's  ripe   for  fight 

now  ? 
Give    a  rouse :    here  's,  in  hell's   despite 

now, 
King  Charles  ! 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since  ? 
Who  rais'd  me  the  house  that  sank  once  ? 
Who  help'd  me  to  gold  I  spent  since  ? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 

(  Chorus) 
King   Charles,   and    who  'II   do    him   right 

now  ? 
King    Charles,   and    who  's    ripe  for  fight 

noiv  ? 

Give  a  rouse :  here 's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

To  whom  us'd  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 
By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damn'd  troopers  shot  him  ? 

(Chorus) 
King   Charles,    and   who  'II    do    him   right 

now  ? 
King    Charles,    and   who  's   ripe  for  fight 

now  f 

Give  a  rouse :  here  's,  in  hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles  } 


III 

BOOT   AND   SADDLE 

BOOT,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  ! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray, 

(Chorus) 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  I 

Ride  past  the   suburbs,   asleep   as  you  'd 

say  ; 
Many  's  the  friend  there,   will  listen   and 

pray 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the 

lay  — 

(Chorus) 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  !  " 

Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Flouts  Castle  Brancepeth  the  Roundheads' 

array  : 
Who  laughs,   "  Good  fellows  ere  this,  by 

my  fay, 

(Chorus) 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  !  " 

Who  ?     My  wife  Gertrude  ;  that,  honest 

and  gay, 
Laughs   when   you   talk   of    surrendering, 

"  Nay  ! 
I  've  better  counsellors  ;  what  counsel  they  ? 

(Chorus) 
'  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  ! ' ' 


MY    LAST   DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

THAT  's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the 
wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 

That  piece  a  wonder,  now  :  Fra  Pandolf 's 
hands 

Work'd  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 

Will 't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ?  I 
said 

"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design  :  for  never  read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictur'd  counte- 
nance, 

The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 

But  to  myself  they  turn'd  (since  none  puts 
'  by 

The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 


345 


And  seem'd  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they 

durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there  ;  so,  not  the 

first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was 

not 
Her  husband's   presence  only,   call'd  that 

spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  perhaps 
ITra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "  Her  mantle 

laps 
Over    my    lady's    wrist    too    much,"    or 

"  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half -flush  that  dies  along  her  throat  :  "  such 

stuff 
Was    courtesy,    she    thought,    and    cause 

enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall   I  say  ?  —  too   soon 

made  glad, 

Too  easily  impress'd  ;  she  lik'd  whate'er 
She  look'd  on,  and  her  looks  went  every- 
where. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one  !    My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace  —  all  and 

each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving 

speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.      She  thank'd  men,  — 

good  !  but  thank'd 
Somehow  —  I   know  not  how  —  as  if  she 

rank'd 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.  Who  'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to  make 

your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "  Just 

this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me  ;  here  you  miss, 
Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and  if  she 

let 

Herself  be  lesson'd  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  ex- 
cuse, 
• —  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping  ;  and 

I  choose 
Never  to   stoop.      Oh  sir,  she  smil'd,   no 

doubt, 
Whene'er  I  pass'd   her  ;    but  who  pass'd 

without 


Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew  ;  I  gave 

commands  ; 
Then  all  smiles  stopp'd  together.      There 

she  stands 
As  if  alive.    Will 't  please  you  rise  ?   We  '11 

meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 
The   Count  your  master's   known   munifi- 
cence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallow'd  ; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avow'd 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  go 
Together    down,    sir.       Notice    Neptune, 

though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze 
for  me  ? 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH 
CAMP 

You  know,  we  French  storm'd  Ratisbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  stormiug-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how,        -  < 

Legs  wide,  arms  lock'd  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mus'd  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army  leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,  "  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping  ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reach'd  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy  : 

You  Hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compress'd, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  look'd  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"    cried   he,   "  Emperor,   by   God's 
grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 


346 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perch'd  him  ! "     The  chief's  eye  flash'd  ; 
his  plans 

Soar'd  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flash'd  ;  but  presently 

Soften'd  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruis'd  eaglet  breathes. 
"  You  're  wounded  !  "    "  Nay,"  the  soldier's 
pride 

Touch'd  to  the  quick,  he  said  : 
« I  'm  kill'd,  Sire  !  "     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 

IN   A   GONDOLA 
He  sings 

I  SEND  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears 

part  ; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light   my  joyous  heart  to  thee   its 
dwelling-place. 

She  speaks 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 

My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 

Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 

In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way  : 

"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 

She  bids  me  wear  ;  which  "  (say  again) 

"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 

A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 

Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 

And  yet    once    more   say   ...   no  word 

more  ! 
Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er  ! 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame  — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtain'd  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds  1 


What 's  left  but  —  all  of  me  to  take  ? 
I  am  the  Three's  :  prevent  them,  slake 
Your  thirst  !     'T  is  said,  the  Arab  sage, 
In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 
Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 
And  leave  but  ashes  :  so,  sweet  mage, 
Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 
Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage  ! 

He  sings 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past  ! 

What 's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast  ? 

Gray  Zanobi  's  just  a- wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchas'd  bride  : 

Past  we  glide  ! 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past  ! 

Why  's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  ? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried  : 

Past  we  glide  ! 

She  sings 

The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  purs'd 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  enter'd  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday,  — 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so,  all  is  render'd  up, 
And  passively  its  shatter'd  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings 

What  are  we  two  ? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can 

pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe; 
Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 
The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 
Thy  .  .  .     Scatter  the  vision  for  ever  I   And 

now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  I 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


347 


Say  again,  what  we  are  ? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  wither- 
ing away 

Some  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever  ! 
And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 

He  muses 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest  ? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast  ? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows,  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must  ; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves  ? 

He  speaks,  musing 

Lie  back  :  could  thought  of  mine  improve 

you? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing  ;  from  this,  another  wing  ; 
Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move 

you  ! 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 
With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 
They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 
Broader,  into  burning  gold, 
Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 
Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 
As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurl'd 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world  ! 
Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks  !     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art ! 

Still  he  muses 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader  ?     While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back  ;  I  reel  ; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel  ? 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 


Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink  ! 

She  replies,  musing 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat  side,  elbow- 
deep, 

As  I  do  :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike  sleep. 

Caught  this  way  ?  Death 's  to  fear  from 
flame  or  steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water  — 
feell 

Go  find  the  bottom  !  Would  you  stay  me  ? 
There  ! 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon- 
grass 

To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 

I  flung  away  :  since  you  have  prais'd  my 
hair, 

'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speaks 

Row  home?  must  we  row  home?  Too  surely 

Know  I  where  its  front 's  demurely 

Over  the  Guidecca  pil'd  ; 

Window  just  with  window  mating, 

Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 

All 's  the  set  face  of  a  child  : 

But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face  ? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea- water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead  ! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you  — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony, 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climb'd  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold. 

This  coil'd  hair  on  your  head,  unroiPd, 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness'  sake 


348 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain, 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  mark'd  their  thief  to  know  again. 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine  !    What  should  your  chamber 

do? 

—  With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 
In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 
At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 
Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 
Who  brought  against  their  will  together 
These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 
Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 
That  dumb  they  look  :  your  harp,  believe, 
With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 
Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 
Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 
Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  —  his  wings 
Make  murmur,  wheresoe'er  they  graze, 
As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 
Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 
And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 
Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 
And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 
Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 
As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 
Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 
And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell ! 
And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 
To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend  ! 
Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 
You  'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 
Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 
To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke  ! 
And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 
Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 
You  'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 
Of  that  rob'd  counsel-keeping  Ser  — 
As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 
And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 
On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 
Are  these  his  progeny  invent, 
What  litter  now  the  board  employs 
Whereon  he  sign'd  a  document 
That  got  him  murder'd  !     Each  enjoys 
Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 
The  sport  up  :  so,  indeed  must  make 
More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 


That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze  !     If  the  ribbon  's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching  :  keep  away  I 

Your  gondola  —  let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had    struck    some    quay    or    bridge-foot 

stair ! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 
As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There  's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper  ;  safe  are 

we. 

Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me  ? 
Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago  ! 
Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my 

hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to 

land. 
Just  say,  "  All  thanks,  Siora  !  "  — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips  !     Yet  once  more,  ere  we 

part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou 

art! 

He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed 

It  was  ordain'd  to  be  so,  sweet  !  —  and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy 

breast. 
Still  kiss  me  !     Care  not  for  the  cowards  ! 

Care 

Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt  !     The  Three,  I  do  not 

scorn 

To  death,  because  they  never  liv'd  :  but  I 
Have  liv'd  indeed,  and  so  —  (yet  one  more 

kiss)  —  can  die  ! 


SONG  FROM  "PIPPA  PASSES" 

THE  year 's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning  's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side 's  dew-pearl'd  ; 
The  lark 's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail 's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God  's  in  His  heaven  — 
All 's  right  with  the  world. 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


349 


«  HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE 
GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT 
TO  AIX" 

[16-3 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he  ; 
I  gallop' d,  Dirck  gallop'd,  we  gallop 'd  all 

three  ; 
"  Good  speed  ! "    cried  the  watch,  as  the 

gate-bolts  undrew  ; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 

through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to 

rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  gallop'd  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each   other  ;  we  kept  the 

great  pace 
Neck    by    neck,    stride   by   stride,    never 

changing  our  place  ; 
I  turn'd  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths 

tight, 
Then  shorten'd  each  stirrup,   and  set  the 

pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chain'd  slacker 

the  bit, 
Nor  gallop'd  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we 

drew  near 
Lokeren,    the    cocks    crew    and    twilight 

dawn'd  clear  ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to 

see; 
At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could 

be; 
And  from  Mechelm  church-steeple  we  heard 

the  half  chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "  Yet  there  is 

time  !  " 

At  Aershot,  up  leap'd  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him   the    cattle   stood   black 

every  one, 

To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at 

last, 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 

spray  : 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 

ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  prick'd  out 

on  his  track  ; 


And  one   eye's   black   intelligence,  —  ever 

that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master, 

askance  ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which 

aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping 

on. 

By    Hasselt,    Dirck    groan'd  ;    and    cried 

Joris  "  Stay  spur  ! 
Your  Roos    gallop'd   bravely,  the   fault 's 

not  in  her, 
We  '11  remember  at  Aix  "  —  for  one  heard 

the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretch'd  neck  and 

staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 

flank, 
As  down  on   her  haunches  she  shudder'd 

and  sank. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 
Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in 

the  sky  ; 
The   broad   sun   above  laugh'd  a  pitiless 

laugh, 
'Neath   our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 

stubble  like  chaff  ; 
Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang 

white, 
And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in 

sight ! 

"How  they'll  greet  us  !"  —  and  all  in  a 

moment  his  roan 
Roll'd  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 

stone  ; 
And   there  was   my  Roland   to   bear   the 

whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix 

from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to 

the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets' 

rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster 

let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt 

and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrnp,  lean'd,  patted  his 

ear, 
Call'd  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse 

without  peer  ; 


35° 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


Clapp'd  my  hands,  laugh'd  and  sang,  any 

noise,  bad  or  good, 
Till  at  length   into  Aix  Roland  gallop'd 

and  stood. 

And  all   I  remember  is,  friends  flocking 

round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on 

the  ground  ; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland 

of  mine, 
As   I   pour'd    down   his    throat    our   last 

measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common 

consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought 

good  news  from  Ghent. 


THE   LOST   LEADER 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft 

us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote  ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  dol'd  him  out 

silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allow'd  ; 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  ser- 
vice ! 
Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had 

been  proud  ! 
We  that  had  lov'd  him  so,  follow'd  him, 

honor'd  him, 

Liv'd  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learn'd   his   great    language,   caught   his 

clear  accents, 
Made  him   our  pattern  to  live   and   to 

die! 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 
Burns,   Shelley,   were   with   us, —  they 

watch  from  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  free- 
men, 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves  ! 

We   shall   march   prospering,  —  not   thro' 

his  presence  ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not   from  his 

lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his 

quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade 
aspire. 


Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost 

soul  more, 

One  task  more  declin'd,  one  more  foot- 
path untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for 

angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 

to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come 

back  to  us  ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and 

pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part  —  the  glimmer  of 

twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again  ! 
Best  fight  on  well,   for  we  taught  him  — 

strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own  ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge 

and  wait  us, 

Pardon'd    in  heaven,   the   first   by  the 
throne  ! 


YOUTH   AND    ART 

IT  once  might  have  been,  once  only  : 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 

You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

You  thumb'd,  thrust,  patted  and  polish'd, 

Then  laugh'd,  "  They  will  see,  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolish'd." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song  ; 

I  chirp'd,  cheep'd,  trill'd  and  twitter'd, 
"  Kate  Brown  's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embitter'd  !  " 

I  earn'd  no  more  by  a  warble 

Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  ; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipp'd  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  look'd  out  on  the  tiles, 

For  fun,  watch'd  each  other's  windows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse  —  nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too  J 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adher'd  to. 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


35* 


A.nd  I  —  soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

No  harm  !     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turn'd  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt, 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up  : 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  look'd  rare 
With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 
Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it  ? 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 
(And  yet  the  memory  rankles) 

When  models  arriv'd,  some  minx 

Tripp'd  up  stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 

"  That  foreign  fellow,  —  who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ?  " 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her,   piano,   and   long   tunes   and  short 
tunes  ?  " 

No,  no  :  you  would  not  be  rash, 
Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over  ; 

You  've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 
And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 
I  'm  queen  myself  at  bals-pares, 

I  've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you  're  dubb'd  knight  and  an  R.  A. 

Each  life  's  unfulfill'd,  you  see  ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy  : 
We  have  not  sigh'd  deep,  laugh'd  free, 

Starv'd,  feasted,  despair'd,  —  been  happy ; 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 
And  people  suppose  me  clever  ; 

This  could  but  have  happen'd  once, 
And  we  miss'd  it,  lost  it  forever. 


HOME   THOUGHTS    FROM 
ABROAD 


OH,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April 's 

there 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some 

morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood 

sheaf 

Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard 

bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 


And  after  April,  when  May  follows 

And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the 

swallows  ! 
Hark,  where   my   blossom'd   pear-tree   in 

the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops —  at  the  bent 

spray's  edge  — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each  song 

twice  over 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  re- 
capture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And,  though  the   fields   look  rough  with 

hoary  dew, 

All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower, 
Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  ! 


A    FACE 

IF  one   could   have  that    little    head    of 

hers  ! 

Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers  ! 
No   shade   encroaching   on   the   matchless 

mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening 

soft 
In   the    pure    profile  ;    not    as   when    she 

laughs, 

For  that  spoils  all  :  but  rather  as  if  aloft 
Yon    hyacinth,    she    loves    so,    lean'd    its 

staff's 

Burthen  of  honey-color'd  buds  to  kiss 
And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 


352 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might 

surround, 
How  it   should   waver,  on  the   pale  gold 

ground, 
Up  to  the   fruit-shap'd,    perfect    chin    it 

lifts  ! 

I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning   shades   ab- 
sorb ; 
But  these   are  only  mass'd  there,  I  should 

think, 

Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently. 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the 

sky 
(That 's   the   pale  ground   you  'd  see    this 

sweet  face  by), 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condens'd  into  one 

eye 
Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it 

wink. 


«DE    GUSTIBUS  — " 


YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice  — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say,  — 

The  happier  they  ! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the 

moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  ! 


What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurl'd, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-griev'd  Apenniue. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  laud  of  lands)  — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  bak'd  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And   one   sharp   tree  —  't  is   a  cypress  — • 
stands, 


By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough  iron-spik'd,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  for  ever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons. 
And  says  there  's  news  to-day  —  the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touch'd  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling  : 
—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 
Italy,  my  Italy  ! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me  — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Grav'd  inside  of  it,  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be. 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB 
AT  SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH 

ROME,     15  — 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity  ! 
Draw  round  my  bed  :  is  Auselm  keeping 

back  ? 
Nephews  —  sons  mine.  .  .  ah  God,  I  know 

not!     Well  — 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother 

once, 

Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 
What 's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  be- 
side, 

Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world  's  a 

dream. 

Life,  how  and  what  is  it  ?  As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I 

ask, 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace 

seems  all. 
Saint   Praxed's   ever  was   the   church  for 

peace ; 

And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ya 

know  : 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


353 


—  Old  Gandolf  cozen'd   me,   despite   my 

care ; 
Shrewd   was    that    snatch    from    out    the 

corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the 

same  ! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramp'd  but 

thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those   silent 

seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam 's  sure  to  lurk  : 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 
With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and 

two, 
The   odd   one   at  my  feet  where  Anselm 

stands  : 
Peach-blossom  marble   all,   the   rare,  the 

ripe 
As  fresh-pour'd  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse, 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone. 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him  !     True 

peach, 

Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earn'd  the  prize  ! 
Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my 

church 

—  What   then  ?     So   much   was   sav'd    if 

aught  were  miss'd  ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ?     Go 

dig 

The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil- 
press  stood, 

Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know  not, 

I!  ... 

Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  figleaves  soft, 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 
Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast  .  . 
Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 
That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So,   let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my 

knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his 

hands 

Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and 

burst ! 

Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years  : 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he  ? 
Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons  ? 

Black  — 


'T  was  ever  antique-black  I  meant  !     How 

'      else 

Shall  ye  contrast   my  frieze  to  come  be- 
neath ? 

The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promis'd  me. 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and 

perchance 

Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Ready  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment 

off, 

And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I  know 
Ye  mark  me  not  !     What  do  they  whisper 

thee, 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm  ?  Ah,  ye  hope 
To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 
Brick'd  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  traver- 
tine 
Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles 

at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper,  then  ! 
'T   is   jasper   ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I 

grieve 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas  ! 
One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut. 
There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the 

world  — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 
Horses   for  ye,  and  brown   Greek   manu- 
scripts, 
And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly 

limbs  ? 

—  That 's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 
Choice  Latin,  pick'd  phrase,  Tully's  every 

word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second  line  — 
Tully,    my    masters?     Ulpiau    serves  his 

need ! 

And  then  how  shall  I  lie  through  centuries, 
And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 
And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  longs 
And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 
Good    strong    thick    stupefying     incense- 

smoke  ! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 
Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 
I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasp'd  a  crook, 
And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone 

can  point, 
And   let   the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth, 

drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work  : 
And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange 
thoughts 


354 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 
About  the  life  before  I  liv'd  this  life, 
And    this   life   too,   popes^    cardinals   and 

priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 
And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 
And  marble's  language,   Latin  pure,  dis- 
creet, 

—  Aha,  ELUCESCRBAT  quoth  our  friend  ? 
No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best  ! 
Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 
All  lapis,  all,  sons  !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 
My  villas  !    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart  ? 
Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 
They  glitter   like  your   mother's  for   my 

soul, 
Or   ye  would   heighten   my   impoverish'd 

frieze, 
Piece  out  its  starv'd  design,  and  fill  my 

vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 
And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 
That    in   his  struggle  throws  the    thyrsus 

down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 
Wherein  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask, 
"  Do  I  live,  am  I  dead  ?  "  There,  leave  me, 

there  ! 

For  ye  have  stabb'd  me  with  ingratitude 
To  death  :  ye   wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish  it  ! 

Stone  — 
Gritstone,    a-crumble !    Clammy     squares 

which  sweat 
As   if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing 

through  — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world  ! 
Well,    go  !     I    bless    ye.     Fewer  tapers 

there, 
But  in  a  row :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

—  Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 
And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for 

peace 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers  — 
Old  Gandolf  —  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 
As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was  ! 


MEETING   AT   NIGHT 

THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land  ; 
And    the    yellow    half -moon    large    and 

low  : 

And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 


As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach  ; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  joys  and 

fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each  ! 


PARTING   AT   MORNING 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  seas 
And  the  sun  look'd  over  the  mountain's  rim : 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


EVELYN    HOPE 

BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She   pluck'd    that    piece   of   geranium- 
flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass  ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckon'd  unawares,  — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her, 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew  — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so 

wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  1 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


355 


Delay 'd  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a 
few  : 

Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come,  at  last  it  will, 
When,    Evelyn    Hope,   what    meant   (I 

shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's 

red  — 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 

I    have  liv'd  (I  shall  say)  so  much   since 
then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gain'd  nie  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransack'd  the  ages,  spoil'd  the  climes  ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  miss'd  or  itself  miss'd  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 

I  lov'd  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ! 

My  heart  seem'd  full  as  it  could  hold ; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 

young  smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's 

young  gold. 
So   hush,  —  I   will  give  you  this   leaf   to 

keep  : 
See,   I   shut   it   inside    the    sweet    cold 

hand  ! 

There,  that  is  our  secret  :  go  to  sleep  ! 
You    will    wake,    and    remember,    and 
understand. 


«  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK 
TOWER    CAME"1 

MY   first   thought  was,  he   lied   in   every 

word, 

That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of   the  glee,  that   purs'd   and 

scor'd 

Its    edge,   at   one    more   victim   gain'd 
thereby. 


What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with  his 

staff? 

What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  en- 
snare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted 

there, 

And  ask  the  road  ?    I  guess'd  what  skull- 
like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my 

epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.  Yet  acquiesciugly 
I  did  turn  as  he  pointed  :  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 
So   much   as    gladness    that    some    end 
might  be. 

For,    what    with    my    whole    world-wide 

wandering, 
What  with  my  search  drawn  out  thro' 

years,  my  hope 

Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 
With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would 

bring,  — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart   made,  finding   failure   in   its 
scope. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 
Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and 

end 
The  tears  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each 

friend, 

And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath 
Freelier  outside,   ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he 

saith, 

"  And  the  blow'  fallen  no  grieving  can 
amend  ;  ") 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 

Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 

Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away. 

With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and 

staves, 

And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and 
stay. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffer'd,  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "  The  Band  "  —  to 

wit, 
song  in  "Lear." 


356 


VARIOUS    DISTINCTIVE    POETS 


The   knights   who  to  the    Dark   Tower's 

search  address'd 
Their    steps  —  that  just   to  fail  as   they, 

seem'd  best. 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should  I 

befit? 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turn'd  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Red  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

For  mark  !  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last 

view 
O'er  the  safe  road,  't  was  gone  ;  gray  plain 

all  round  : 

Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on ;  nought  else  remain'd  to  do. 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starv'd    ignoble    nature  ;   nothing 

throve  : 
For  flowers  —  as   well  expect  a  cedar 

grove  ! 

But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to 

awe, 

You  'd  think  ;  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure 
trove. 

No  !  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 

In  some  strange   sort,  were  the  land's 

portion.     "  See 

Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"  It  nothing  skills  :  I  cannot  help  my  case  : 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this 

place, 

Calcine  its   clods  and  set  my  prisoners 
free." 

£f  there  push'd  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
A.bove  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopp'd  ; 

the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those 

holes  and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruis'd 

as  to  baulk 
All  hope  of  greenness  ?    'T  is  a  brute  must 

walk 

Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  in- 
tents. 


As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 
In  leprosy  ;  thin  dry  blades  prick'd  the 

mud 
Which   underneath   look'd   kneaded   up 

with  blood. 
One    stiff    blind    horse,    his    every    bone 

a-stare, 

Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there  : 
Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's 
stud ! 

Alive  ?    he   might    be    dead   for   aught   I 

know, 
With  that  red,  gaunt  and  collop'd  neck 

a-strain, 
And    shut    eyes   underneath    the    rusty 

mane  ; 
Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such 

woe  ; 
I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  ; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turn'd  them  on  .my 

heart. 

As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  ask'd  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier 

sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 
Think  first,  fight  afterwards  —  the  soldier's 

art  : 

One  taste   of  the  old  time   sets  all  to 
rights. 

Not   it  !     I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening 

face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  us'd.     Alas,  one  night's  dis- 
grace ! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it 
cold. 

Giles   then,  the  soul  of  honor  —  there  he 

stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted 

first. 
What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said) 

he  durst. 
Good  —  but    the    scene    shifts  —   faugh  J 

what  hangman  hands 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment  ?     His  own 

bands 

Read   it.     Poor   traitor,  spit   upon   and 
curst  ! 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


357 


Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that  ; 
Back   therefore   to  my  darkening  path 

again  ! 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could 

strain. 

Will  the  night  send  a  howlet  or  a  bat  ? 
I  asked  :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 
Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change 
their  train. 

A  sudden  little  river  cross'd  my  path 
As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 
No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms  ; 
This,  as  it  froth'd  by,  might  have  been  a 

bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the 

wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and 
spumes. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful !     All  along, 
Low  scrubby  alders  kneel'd  down  over 
.        it; 
Drench'd  willows   flung  them   headlong 

in  a  fit 

Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng  : 
The    river  which   had  done   them  all   the 

wrong, 

Whate'er   that  was,  roll'd    by,  deterr'd 
no  whit. 

Which,  while  I  forded,  —  good  saints,  how 

I  fear'd 

To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to 

seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard  ! 
—  It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  spear'd, 
But,  ugh  !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reach'd  the  other  bank. 
Now  for  a  better    country.     Vain   pre- 
sage ! 
Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did 

they  wage 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the 

dank 

Soil  to  a  plash  ?     Toads  in  a  poison'd  tank, 
Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage  — 

The  fight  must  so  have  seem'd  in  that  fell 

cirque. 
What   penn'd  them  there,  with  all  the 

plain  to  choose  ? 
No  foot-print  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 


None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves 

the  Turk 
Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against 

Jews. 

And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on  —  why, 

there  ! 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that 

wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow  fit  to 

reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk  ?  with  all  the 

air 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 
Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of 
steel. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubb'd  ground,  once  a 

wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now 

mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with  ;  (so  a  fool  finds 

mirth, 
Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his 

mood 

Changes  and  off  he  goes  !)  within  a  rood  — 
Bog,  clay,  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark 
black  dearth. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  color'd  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the 

soil's 

Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils  ; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end, 
Nought  in  the  distance  but  the  evening, 

nought 
To  point  my  footstep  further  !     At  the 

thought, 

A    great    black    bird,    Apollyon's    bosom- 
friend, 
Sail'd  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon- 

penn'd 

That   brush'd  my   cap  —  perchance   the 
guide  I  sought. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 
Spite   of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given 

place 
All    round    to    mountains  —  with    such 

name  to  grace 


353 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in 

view. 
How  thus  they  had  surpris'd  me, — solve 

it,  you  ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer 

case. 

Yet  half  I  seem'd  to  recognize  some  trick 
Of  mischief  happen'd  to  me,  God  knows 

when  — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended, 

then, 

Progress  this  way.    When,  in  the  very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts  —  you  're  inside  the 
den. 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 
This  was  the  place  !  those  two  hills  on 

the  right, 
Couch'd  like  two  bulls  lock'd  horn  in 

horn  in  fight, 
While,  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalp'd  mountain 

.  .  .  Dunce, 
Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 

After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight ! 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself  ? 
The   round   squat   turret,  blind   as   the 

fool's  heart, 

Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counter- 
part 

In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mock- 
ing elf 

Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 

Not   see  ?  because   of  night  perhaps  ?  — 

why,  day 

Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft : 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay,  — 
"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature  —  to 
the  heft !  " 

Not  hear  ?  when  noise  was  everywhere  !  it 

toll'd 

Increasing  like  a  bell.  Names  in  my  ears 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers,  — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was 

bold, 

A.nd  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 
Lost,  lost  !  one  moment  knell'd  the  woe 
of  years. 


There   they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill- 
sides, met 

To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture  !  in  a  sheet  of  flame 
I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 
And  blew  "  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark 
Tower  came" 

RESPECTABILITY 

DEAR,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 

Deign'd  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you  both. 
Have  recogniz'd  your  plighted  troth, 

Am  sponsor  for  you  :  live  in  peace  !  " 

How  many  precious  months  and  years 
Of  youth  had  pass'd,  that  speed  so  fast. 
Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 

The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 

How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 
With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 
And  women  models  of  their  sex, 

Society's  true  ornament,  — 

Ere  we  dar'd  wander,  nights  like  this, 
Thro'  wind  and  rain,  and  watch  the  Seine, 
And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss  ? 

I  know  !  the  world  proscribes  not  love  ; 

Allows  my  fingers  to  caress 

Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 
Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 
The  world's  good  word  !  —  the  Institute  ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert  ! 

Eh  ?     Down   the   court  three  lampions 

flare  : 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 

MEMORABILIA 

AH,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new ! 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after  ; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

I  cross'd  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


359 


For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


ONE   WAY  OF   LOVE 

ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strow  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?     Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?     So  ! 
Break  the  string  ;  fold  music's  wing  : 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing  ! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learn'd  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion  —  heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?     'T  is  well  ! 

Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  bless'd  are  they  ! 


ONE   WORD    MORE 

THERE  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finish'd  ! 
Take   them,  Love,   the   book   and  me  to- 
gether. 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

Rafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 
Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 
Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 
Else  he  only  us'd  to  draw  Madonnas  : 
These,  the  world   might  view  —  but  One, 

the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  in- 
structs you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 
Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets, 
Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 
Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 
Rafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving  — 
Cheek,    the    world   was  wont    to    hail    a 

painter's, 

Rafael's   cheek,  her    love    had   turn'd    a 
poet's  ? 


You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at    Madon- 
nas— 

Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that  'a  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

Yon  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 
Guido  Reni  like  his  own  eye's  apple 
Guarded  long  the  treasure  book  and  lov'd  it. 
Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 
Cried,  and  the  world  with  it,  "  Ours  —  the 

treasure  !  " 
Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanish'd. 

Dante  once  prepar'd  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom    to    please  ?     You   whisper  "  Bea- 
trice." 
While  he  mus'd  and  traced  it  and  retraced 

it, 

(Peradventure  with  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipp'd 

for, 
When,   his  left-hand   i'   the    hair  o'   the 

wicked, 
Back    he   held  the  brow  and   prick'd  its 

stigma, 

Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loos'd  him,   laugh'd    to   see   the   writing 

rankle, 

Let    the  wretch  go  festering   thro'   Flor- 
ence) — 

Dante,  who  lov'd  well  because  he  hated, 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says    he  —  "  Certain    people    of    impor- 
tance " 

(Such  he  gave  his  daily,  dreadful  line  to) 
Enter'd  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet. 
Says  the  poet  —  "  Then  I  stopp'd  my  paint 

ing." 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel, 
Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 
Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  In 
ferno. 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mus'd  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  soften'd  o'er  his  outlin'd  angel, 
In   they  broke,  those    "  people   of   impor- 
tance : " 


360 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  forever. 

What  of  Rafael's  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 

This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves  that  longs 

not 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 
(Ah,  the  prize  !)  to  find  his  love  a  language 
Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 
Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others, 
Not,  this  one  time,  art    that 's  turn'd  his 

nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 
None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 
Does    he   paint  ?  he    fain  would    write  a 

poem,  — 

Does  he  write  ?  he  fain  would  paint  a  pic- 
ture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's, 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only, 
So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist, 
Save  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

Wherefore  ?     Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's 

abatement ! 
He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads   the 

water 
Bidding    drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath 

him, 

Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal, 
Proves,  perchance,  his  mortal  in  the  minute, 
Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing, 
While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remem- 
ber, 

So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril, 
When   they  stood   and   mock'd — "Shall 

smiting  help  us  ?  " 
When  they  drank  and  sneer'd  —  "A  stroke 

is  easy  ! " 
When  they  wip'd  their  mouths  and  went 

their  journey, 
Throwing  him  for  thanks  —  "  But  drought 

was  pleasant. " 

Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  tri- 
umph ; 

Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish  ; 

Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  some- 
what ; 

O'er-importun'd  brows  becloud  the  man- 
date, 

Carelessness  or  consciousness,  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanx'd  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  'custom'd 
prelude  — 


"  How  shouldst  thou,  of    all    men,  smite, 

and  save  us  ?  " 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  — • 
"  Egypt's  flesh-pots  — nay,  the  drought  was 

better." 

Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  war- 
rant ! 

Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead's  cloven  bril- 
liance, 

Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial 
fiat. 

Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thou 

sands, 
(Were  she    Jethro's   daughter,  white  and 

wifely, 

Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel, 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert  ; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  open'd) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining, 
Paint   you   pictures,    no,   nor    carve    you 

statues, 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me  ; 
So  it  seems  :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 
This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me  ; 
Verse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you 
Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing  — • 
All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own, 

Love  ! 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 
Shade  so  finely  touch'd,  love's  sense  must 

seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly, 
Lines    I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last 

time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush 
Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly, 
Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little, 
Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 
Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets 
He  who  blows  thro'  bronze,  may  breathe 

thro'  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 
He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once,  as  1  da 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and 
Live  or  dead  or  fashion'd  by  my  fancy 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


361 


Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the   speech,  a 

poem. 

Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving  : 
I  am  mine  and    yours  —  the    rest    be  all 

men's, 

Karshook,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person, 
Not  as  Lippo,  Roland  or  Andrea, 
Though    the  fruit  of  speech   be    just  this 

sentence  — 

Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  wo- 
men, 

Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finish'd  ; 
Where   my   heart   lies,  let   my  brain    lie 

also  ! 

Poor  the  speech  ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all 
things. 

Not  but    that  you    know  me  !     Lo,   the 

moon's  self  ! 

Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find    her  face,  the  thrice  trans- 

figur'd. 

Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color, 
Drifted  over  Fiesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair's- 

breadth. 

Full  she  flar'd  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Rounder  'twixt  the  cypresses,  and  rounder, 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverish'd, 
Hard   to   greet,  she    traverses  the  house- 
roofs, 

Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver, 
Goes  dispiritedly,  —  glad  to  finish. 
What,  there  's  nothing  in  the  moon  note- 
worthy ? 
Nay  —  for   if  that    moon    could    love    a 

mortal, 

Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy) 
All  her  magic  ('t  is  the  old  sweet  mythos) 
She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal, 
Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steers- 
man — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace, 
Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret, 
Dumb    to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats  —  him, 

even  ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mor- 
tal— 
When    she  turns    round,  comes   again    in 

heaven, 
Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better  ? 


Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  ice- 
berg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders, 
Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splinter'd  crys- 
tals ? 

Proves  she  as  the  pav'd-work  of  a  sapphire 
Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climb'd  the  moun- 
tain? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 
Climb'd  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  High- 
est, 

Stand  upon  the  pav'd-work  of  a  sapphire. 
Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 
Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  pav'd- 
work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God 
also  ! 

What  were  seen  ?  None  knows,  none  ever 
shall  know. 

Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other, 

Not  the  moon's  same  side,  born  late  in 
Florence, 

Dying  now  impoverish'd  here  in  London. 

God  be  thank'd,  the  meanest  of  his  crea- 
tures 

Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world 
with, 

One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves 
her. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 

This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets  ! 

Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side  —  there  's 
the  wonder  — 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they 
know  you. 

There  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise 
you, 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out 
them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undream'd 
of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  si- 
lence. 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing 

it, 
Drew    one    angel  —  borne,    see,    on    my 

bosom. 


362 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


ABT  VOGLER 

(AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN  EXTEMPORIZING  UPON 
THE  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT  OF  HIS  INVEN- 
TION) 

WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  mani- 
fold music  I  build, 
Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys 

to  their  work, 
Claiming   each   slave   of  the   sound,  at   a 

touch,  as  when  Solomon  will'd 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of 

demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and 

of  aim, 

Adverse,  each  from    the  other  heaven- 
high,  hell-deep  remov'd,  — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  nam'd 

the  ineffable  Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleas- 
ure the  princess  he  lov'd  ! 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beauti- 
ful building  of  mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  press'd 

and  importun'd  to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  help'd,  would 

dispart  now  and  now  combine, 
Zealous   to   hasten   the  work,    heighten 

their  master  his  praise  ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind 

plunge  down  to  hell, 
Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the 

roots  of  things, 
Then   up   again  swim   into   sight,   having 

bas'd  me  my  palace  well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the 
nether  springs. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like 

the  excellent  minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd 

but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampir'd  walls  of  gold  as  trans- 
parent as  glass, 
Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place 

to  the  rest : 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips 

with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a 

festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome 

from  space  to  spire) 

Up,  the    pinnacled  glory   reach'd,   and 
the  pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 


In  sight  ?     Not  half !  for  it  seem'd  it  was 

certain,  to  match  man's  birth, 
Nature    in   turn   conceiv'd,    obeying   an 

impulse  as  I  ; 
And    the   emulous   heaven  yearn'd  down, 

made  effort  to  reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my 

passion,  to  scale  the  sky  : 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familial 

and  dwelt  with  mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found,  but  fix'd 

its  wandering  star  ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did 

not  pale  nor  pine, 

For  earth  had  attain'd  to  heaven,  there 
was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

Nay  more  ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walk'd 

in  the  glare  and  glow, 
Presences  plain  in  the  place  ;  or,  fresh 

from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnish'd  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier 

wind  should  blow, 
Lur'd  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house 

to  their  liking  at  last  ; 
Or   else   the   wonderful    Dead   who   have 

pass'd  through  the  body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in 

an  old  world  worth  their  new  : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was 

as  it  shall  be  anon  ; 

And    what    is,  —  shall    I    say,  match'd 
both  ?  for  I  was  made  perfect  too. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds 

to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 
All  through  my  soul  that  prais'd  as  its 

wish  flow'd  visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !  For  think,  had 

I  painted  the  whole, 
Why,   there   it  had   stood,   to  see,   nor 

the  process  so  wonder-worth. 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  — 

still,  effect  proceeds  from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear 

how  the  tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience 

to  laws, 

Painter  and  poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist- 
list  enroll'd  :  — 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the 

will  that  can, 

Existent  behind   all    laws  :    that  made 
them,  and,  lo,  they  are  ! 


ROBERT   BROWNING 


363 


And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift 

be  allow'd  to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a 

fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well  :  each,  tone  of  our  scale  in 

itself  is  nought ; 
It  is  everywhere   in  the  world  —  loud, 

soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !     I  mix  it  with  two  in 

my  thought, 

And,  there  !     Ye  have  heard  and  seen  : 
consider  and  bow  the  head  ! 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music 

I  rear'd ; 
Gone !    and   the   good    tears   start,    the 

praises  that  come  too-  slow  ; 
For  one  is  assur'd  at  first,  one  scarce  can 

say  that  he  fear'd, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone 

thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the 

kind 
As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this 

your  comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  sav'd  because  I  cling 

with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same 
God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  Thee,  the 

ineffable  Name  ? 
Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not 

made  with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who 

art  ever  the  same  ? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart 

that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !    What 

was,  shall  live  as  before  ; 
The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  im- 
plying sound  ; 
What  was   good,   shall  be  good,  with,  for 

evil,  so  much  good  more  ; 
On  the   earth   the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the 
heaven,  a  perfect  round. 

All  we  have  will'd  or  hop'd  or  dream'd  of 

good,  shall  exist  ; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself ;  no  beauty, 

nor  good,  nor  power 

Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  sur- 
vives for  the  melodist, 
When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of 
an  hour. 


The  high  that  prov'd  too  high,  the  heroic  for 

earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose 

itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and 

the  bard  ; 

Enough  that  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall 
hear  it  by  and  by. 

And  what  is   our  failure  here  but  a  tri- 
umph's evidence 
For  the  fulness  of  the  days  ?     Have  we 

wither'd  or  agoniz'd  ? 
Why  else  was  the  pause  prolong'd  but  that 

singing  might  issue  thence  ? 
Why   rush'd   the   discords  in,  but    that 

harmony  should  be  priz'd  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to 

clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of 

the  weal  and  woe  : 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers 

in  the  ear  ; 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  ;  't  is 
we  musicians  know. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  resumes 

her  reign  : 
I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly 

acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common 

chord  again, 
Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the 

minor,  — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on 

alien  ground, 
Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  roll'd  from 

into  the  deep  : 
Which,  hark,   I  have  dar'd  and  done,  for 

my  resting-place  is  found, 
The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  I  will 
try  to  sleep. 

PROSPICE 

FEAR  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the 
storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe  ; 

Where    he   stands,    the   Arch  Fear  in  a 
visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 


364 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


For  the  journey  is   done  and  the  summit 

attain'd, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle 's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon 

be  gain'd, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I    was    ever    a    fighter,    so  —  one    fight 

more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes, 

and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like 

my  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's 

arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the 

brave, 

The  black  minute 's  at  end, 
And  the   elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices 

that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out 

of  pain. 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul  !    I  shall  clasp  thee 

again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


MISCONCEPTIONS 

THIS  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 

Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure  : 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 

Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet 

hung  to,  — 

So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung 
to! 

This  is  a  heart  the  queen  leant  on, 

Thrill'd  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 
Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 
Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere   the  wanderer 

went  on,  • — 

Love  to  be  sav'd  for  it,  proffer'd  to,  spent 
on  ! 


EPITAPH 

INSCRIBED    ON    A    ROCK   ABOVE   THE   GRAVE    OF 
LEVI    LINCOLN  THAXTER,   APRIL,    1885. 

THOU  whom  these   eyes   saw   never,   say 

friends  true, 
Who  say  my  soul,  help'd  onward  by  my 

song, 
Though  all  unwittingly,  has  help'd  thee 

too? 

I  gave  but  of  the  little  that  I  knew  : 
How  were  the  gift  requited,  while  along 
Life's    path   I   pace,   couldst   thou    make 

weakness  strong, 

Help  me  with  knowledge  —  for  Life 's  old. 
Death  's  new  ! 


MUCKLE-MOUTH    MEG1 

FROWN'D  the  Laird  on  the  Lord  :  "  So,  red- 
handed  I  catch  thee  ? 
Death-doom'd  by  our  Law  of  the  Border  ! 
We  've  a  gallows  outside  and  a  chiel  to  dis- 
patch thee  : 
Who  trespasses  —  hangs  :  all 's  in  order." 

He  met  frown  with  smile,  did  the  young 

English  gallant : 
Then  the  Laird's  dame  :  "  Nay,  Husband, 

I  beg! 
He 's  comely  :  be  merciful  !    Grace  for  the 

callant 

—  If    he    marries    our    Muckle-mouth 
Meg  ! " 

"  No  mile-wide-mouth'd  monster  of  yours 

do  I  marry  : 

Grant  rather  the  gallows  ! "  laugh'd  he. 
"Foul  fare  kith  and  kin  of  you  —  why  do 

you  tarry  ?  " 

"  To  tame  your  fierce  temper ! "  quotb 
she. 

"  Shove  him  quick  in  the  Hole,  shut  him 

fast  for  a  week  : 

Cold,  darkness,  and  hunger  work  won- 
ders : 
Who    lion-like  roars   now,   mouse-fashion 

will  squeak, 

And  '  it  rains '  soon  succeed  to  '  it  thun» 
ders.'  " 


Compare  J.  Ballantine,  p.  83. 


BROWNING  —  DOBELL 


365 


A  week  did  he  bide  in  the  cold  and  dark 
—  Not  hunger  :  for  duly  at  morning 

In  flitted  a  lass,  and  a  voice  like  a  lark 
Chirp'd,  "  Muckle-inouth  Meg  still  ye  're 
scorning  ? 

u  Go  hang,  but  here  's  parritch  to  hearten 

ye  first  ! " 
"  Did  Meg's  muckle-mouth  boast  within 

some 
Such  music  as  yours,  mine  should  match  it 

or  burst  : 

No   frog-jaws  !     So  tell  folk,  my  Win- 
some !  " 

Soon  week  came  to  end,  and,  from  Hole's 

door  set  wide, 
Out  he  march'd,  and  there  waited  the 

lassie  : 
"  Yon  gallows,  or  Muckle-niouth  Meg  for 

a  bride  ! 
Consider  !    Sky  's  blue  and  turf  's  grassy: 

41  Life 's  sweet ;  shall  I  say  ye  wed  Muckle- 
mouth  Meg  ?  " 
"  Not  I,"  quoth  the  stout  heart  :    "  too 

eerie 
The  mouth  that  can  swallow  a  bubblyjock's 

egg: 

Shall    I   let    it    munch    mine  ?   Never, 
dearie  !  " 

"Not    Muckle-mouth    Meg?     Wow,  the 

obstinate  man  ! 

Perhaps  he  would  rather  wed  me  !  " 
"  Ay,  would    he  —  with  just   for   a  dowry 

your  can  !  " 
"  I  'm  Muckle-mouth  Meg,"  chirp'd  she. 

*  Then  so  —  so  —  so  —  so  —  "  as  he  kiss'd 

her  apace  — 
"  Will  I  widen  thee  out  till  thou  turnest 


From  Margaret  Minnikin-mou',  by  God's 

grace, 
To  Muckle-mouth  Meg  in  good  earnest !  " 


EPILOGUE 

AT  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep- 
time, 
When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where  —  by  death,  fools 
think,  imprison'd  — 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  lov'd  you,  whom 
you  lov'd  so, 

—  Pity  me  ? 

Oh   to   love   so,  be   so  lov'd,  yet  so  mis- 
taken ! 
What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the   slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the 
unmanly  ? 

Like  the  aimless,   helpless,  hopeless  did  I 
drivel 

—  Being  —  who  ? 

One  who  never  turn'd  his  back  but  march'd 

breast  forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dream'd,  though  right  were  worsted, 

wrong  would  triumph, 
Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight 
better, 

Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the   bustle   of  man's 

work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 
Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either 

should  be, 

"  Strive  and  thrive  !  "  cry  "  Speed,  —  fight 
on,  fare  ever 

There  as  here  !  " 


HOW'S    MY   BOY? 

"  Ho,  Sailor  of  the  sea  ! 

How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ?  " 

"  What 's  your  boy  's  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sail'd  he  ?  " 


"  My  boy  John  — 

He  that  went  to  sea  — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy 's  my  boy  to  me. 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


"  You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I  might  as  well  have  ask'd  some  landsman 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There  '$  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 

But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know 

I  '11  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no, 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no  ! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  '  Jolly  Briton  '  "  — 

"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 

"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 

About  my  own  boy  John  ? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I  'd  sing  him  over  the  town  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?  " 

"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

I  was  never  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I  '11  be  bound, 

Her  owners  can  afford  her  ! 

I  say,  how 's  my  John  ?  " 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How  's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 

I  'm  not  their  mother  — 

How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ? 

Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 

How 's  my  boy  —  my  boy  ?  " 


A   NUPTIAL   EVE 

OH,  happy,  happy  maid, 

In  the  year  of  war  and  death 

She  wears  no  sorrow  ! 

By  her  face  so  young  and  fair, 

By  the  happy  wreath 

That  rules  her  happy  hair, 

She  might  be  a  bride  to-morrow  ! 

She  sits  and  sings  within  her  moonlit  bower, 

Her  moonlit  bower  in  rosy  June, 

Yet  ah,  her  bridal  breath, 

Like  fragrance  from  some  sweet  night- 
blowing  flower, 

Moves  from  her  moving  lips  in  many  a 
mournful  tune  ! 


She  sings  no  song  of  love's  despair, 
She  sings  no  lover  lowly  laid, 
No  fond  peculiar  grief 
Has  ever  touched  or  bud  or  leaf 
Of  her  unblighted  spring. 
She  sings  because  she  needs  must  sing  ; 
She  sings  the  sorrow  of  the  air 
Whereof  her  voice  is  made. 
That  night  in  Britain  howsoe'er 
On  any  chords  the  fingers  stray'd 
They  gave  the  notes  of  care. 
A  dim  sad  legend  old 
Long  since  in  some  pale  shade 
Of  some  far  twilight  told, 
She  knows  not  when  or  where, 
She  sings,  with  trembling  hand  on  trembling 
lute-strings  laid  :  — 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine 

"  Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  !  " 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill, 

And  thro'  the  silver  meads  ; 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she  ! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  thro'  the  Monday  morn  ; 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring,, 

His  belted  jewels  shine  ! 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine  ; 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 
The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 


SYDNEY  DOBELL 


367 


The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 
Says  nought  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger  !  here,  from  year  to  year, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood - 
Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear  ? 

The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 
'T  is  not  the  burn  I  hear  ! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 


TOMMY'S   DEAD 

You  may  give  over  plough,  boys, 
You  may  take  the  gear  to  the  stead, 
All  the  sweat  o'  your  brow,  boys, 
Will  never  get  beer  and  bread. 
The  seed  's  waste,  I  know,  boys, 
There  's  not  a  blade  will  grow,  boys, 
'T  is  cropp'd  out,  I  trow,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

Send  the  colt  to  fair,  boys, 

He  's  going  blind,  as  I  said, 

My  old  eyes  can't  bear,  boys, 

To  see  him  in  the  shed  ; 

The  cow  's  dry  and  spare,  boys, 

She 's  neither  here  nor  there,  boys, 

I  doubt  she  's  badly  bred  ; 

Stop  the  mill  to-morn,  boys, 

There  '11  be  no  more  corn,  boys, 

Neither  white  nor  red  ; 

There 's  no  sign  of  grass,  boys, 

You  may  sell  the  goat  and  the  ass,  boys, 

The  land 's  not  what  it  was,  boys, 

And  the  beasts  must  be  fed  : 

You  may  turn  Peg  away,  boys, 

You  may  pay  off  old  Ned, 

We  've  had  a  dull  day,  boys, 

And  Tommy  's  dead. 

Move  my  chair  on  the  floor,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head  : 

She  's  standing  there  in  the  door,  boys, 

Your  sister  Winifred  ! 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 


Your  sister  Winifred  ! 

Move  me  round  in  my  place,  boys, 

Let  me  turn  my  head, 

Take  her  away  from  me,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 

The  bones  of  her  thin  face,  boys, 

As  she  lay  on  her  death-bed  ! 

I  don't  know  how  it  be,  boys, 

When  all 's  done  and  said, 

But  I  see  her  looking  at  me,  boys, 

Wherever  I  turn  my  head  ; 

Out  of  the  big  oak-tree,  boys, 

Out  of  the  garden-bed, 

And  the  lily  as  pale  as  she,  boys, 

And  the  rose  that  used  to  be  red. 

There  's  something  not  right,  boys, 
But  I  think  it 's  not  in  my  head, 
I  've  kept  my  precious  sight,  boys  — 
The  Lord  be  hallowed  ! 
Outside  and  in 

The  ground  is  cold  to  my  tread, 
The  hills  are  wizen  and  thin, 
The  sky  is  shrivell'd  and  shred, 
The  hedges  down  by  the  loan 
I  can  count  them  bone  by  bone, 
The  leaves  are  open  and  spread, 
But  I  see  the  teeth  of  the  land, 
And  hands  like  a  dead  man's  hand, 
And  the  eyes  of  a  dead  man's  head. 
There  's  nothing  but  cinders  and  sand, 
The  rat  and  the  mouse  have  fed, 
And  the  summer  's  empty  and  cold  ; 
Over  valley  and  wold 
Wherever  I  turn  my  head 
There  's  a  mildew  and  a  mould, 
The  sun  's  going  out  overhead, 
And  I  'm  very  old, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

What  am  I  staying  for,  boys  ? 
You  're  all  born  and  bred, 
'T  is  fifty  years  and  more,  boys, 
Since  wife  and  I  were  wed, 
And  she  's  gone  before,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

She  was  always  sweet,  boys, 

Upon  his  curly  head, 

She  knew  she  'd  never  see  't,  boys, 

And  she  stole  off  to  bed  ; 

I  've  been  sitting  up  alone,  boys, 

For  he  'd  come  home,  he  said, 

But  it 's  time  I  was  gone,  boys, 

For  Tommy  's  dead. 


368 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Put  the  shutters  up,  boys, 

Bring  out  the  beer  and  bread, 

Make  haste  and  sup,  boys, 

For  my  eyes  are  heavy  as  lead  ; 

There  's  something  wrong  i'  the  cup,  boys, 

There  's  something  ill  wi'  the  bread, 

I  don't  care  to  sup,  boys, 

And  Tommy 's  dead. 

I  'm  not  right,  I  doubt,  boys, 
I  've  such  a  sleepy  head, 
I  shall  never  more  be  stout,  boys, 
You  may  carry  me  to  bed. 
What  are  you  about,  boys  ? 
The  prayers  are  all  said, 
The  fire  's  rak'd  out,  boys, 
And  Tommy 's  dead. 

The  stairs  are  too  steep,  boys* 
You  may  carry  me  to  the  head, 
The  night 's  dark  and  deep,  boys, 
Your  mother 's  long  in  bed, 
'T  is  time  to  go  to  sleep,  boys, 
And  Tommy  's  dead. 

I  'm  not  us'd  to  kiss,  boys, 

You  may  shake  my  hand  instead. 

All  things  go  amiss,  boys, 

You  may  lay  me  where  she  is,  boys, 

And  I  '11  rest  my  old  head  : 

'T  is  a  poor  world,  this,  boys, 

And  Tommy 's  dead. 


HOME    IN   WAR-TIME 

SHE  turn'd  the  fair  page  with  her  fairer 

hand  — 

More  fair  and  frail  than  it  was  wont  to  be  — 
O'er  each  remember'd  thing  he  lov'd  to  see 
She  linger'd,  and  as  with  a  fairy's  wand 
Enchanted  it  to  order.     Oft  she  fann'd 
New  motes  into  the  sun  ;  and  as  a  bee 
Sings  thro'  a  brake  of  bells,  so  murmur'd 

she, 

And  so  her  patient  love  did  understand 
The  reliquary  room.     Upon  the  sill 
She  fed  his  favorite  bird.     "  Ah,  Robin, 

sing ! 
He  loves  thee."     Then  she  touches  a  sweet 

string 

Of  soft  recall,  and  towards  the  Eastern  hill 
Smiles  all  her  soul  —  for  him  who  cannot 

hear 
The  raven  croaking  at  his  carrion  ear. 


AMERICA 

NOR  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us  I  O  ye 
Who  north  or  south,  on  east  or  western  land, 
Native  to  noble  sounds,  say  truth  for  truth, 
Freedom  for  freedom,  love  for  love,  and  God 
For  God  ;  O  ye  who  in  eternal  youth 
Speak  with  a  living  and  creative  flood 
This  universal  English,  and  do  stand 
Its   breathing   book  ;   live  worthy  of  that 

grand 

Heroic  utterance  —  parted,  yet  a  whole, 
Far  yet  uusever'd,  —  children  brave  and  free 
Of  the  great  Mother-tongue,  and  ye  shall  be 
Lords  of  an  empire  wide  as  Shakespeare's 

soul, 

Sublime  as  Milton's  immemorial  theme, 
And  rich  as  Chaucer's  speech,  and  fair  as 

Spenser's  dream. 


EPIGRAM    ON    THE    DEATH    OF 
EDWARD   FORBES 

NATURE,  a  jealous  mistress,  laid  him  low. 
He  woo'd  and  won  her  ;  and,  by  love  made 

bold, 
She   show'd  him  more   than  mortal   man 

should  know, 
Then  slew  him  lest  her  secret  should  be  told. 


SEA   BALLAD 

FROM    " BALDER  " 

"  How  many  ?  "  said  our  good  Captain. 
"  Twenty  sail  and  more." 
We  were  homeward  bound, 
Scudding  in  a  gale  with  our  jib  towards 

the  Nore. 

Right  athwart  our  tack, 
The  foe  came  thick  and  black, 
Like   Hell-birds   and   foul   weather  —  you 
might  count  them  by  the  score. 

The  Betsy  Jane  did  slack 
To  see  the  game  in  view. 
They  knew  the  Union-Jack, 
And  the  tyrant's  flag  we  knew  ! 
Our  Captain  shouted  "  Clear  the  decks  !  * 
and  the  Bo 'sun's  whistle  blew. 

Then  our  gallant  Captain, 

With  his  hand  he  seiz'd  the  wheel. 


SYDNEY   DOBELL 


369 


And  pointed  with  his  stump  to  the  mid- 
dle of  the  foe. 
"  Hurrah,  lads,  in  we  go  !  " 
(You  should  hear  the  British  cheer, 
Fore  and  aft.) 

"  There  are  twenty  sail,"  sang  he, 

"  But  little  Betsy  Jane  bobs  to  nothing  on 

the  sea  ! " 

(You  should  hear  the  British  cheer, 
Fore  and  aft.) 

"  See  yon  ugly  craft 

With  the  pennon  at  her  main  ! 

Hurrah,  my  merry  boys, 

There  goes  the  Betsy  Jane  ! " 

(You  should  hear  the  British  cheer, 

Fore  and  aft.) 

The   foe,   he   beats  to   quarters,   and  the 

Russian  bugles  sound  ; 
And  the  little  Betsy  Jane  she  leaps  upon 

the  sea. 

"  Port  and  starboard!  "  cried  our  Captain; 
"  Pay  it  in,  my  hearts  !  "  sang  he. 

"  We  're  old  England's  sons, 
And  we  '11  fight  for  her  to-day  ! " 
(You  should  hear  the  British  cheer. 
Fore  and  aft.) 

"  Fire  away  ! " 
In  she  runs, 
And  her  guns 
Thunder  round. 


DANTE,   SHAKESPEARE, 
MILTON 

FROM    " BALDER  " 

Doctor.  Ah  !  thou,  too, 

Sad  Alighieri,  like  a  waning  moon 
Setting  in  storm  behind  a  grove  of  bays  ! 

Balder.     Yes,  the  great  Florentine,  who 

wove  his  web 

And  thrust  it  into  hell,  and  drew  it  forth 
Immortal,  having  burn'd  all  that  could  burn, 
And  leaving  only  what  shall  still  be  found 
Untouch'd,  nor  with  the  smell  of  fire  upon  it, 
Under  the  final  ashes  of  this  world. 

Doctor.     Shakespeare  and  Milton  ! 

Balder.  Switzerland  and  home. 

I  ne'er  see  Milton,  but  I  see  the  Alps, 
As  once,  sole  standing  on  a  peak  supreme, 
To  the  extremest  verge  summit  and  gulf 


I  saw,  height  after  depth,  Alp  beyond  Alp, 
O'er  which  the  rising  and  the  sinking  soul 
Sails  into  distance,  heaving  as  a  ship 
O'er  a  great  sea  that  sets  to  strands  unseen. 
And  as  the  mounting  and  descending  bark, 
Borne  on  exulting  by  the  under  deep, 
Gains  of  the  wild  wave  something  not  the 

wave, 

Catches  a  joy  of  going,  and  a  will 
Resistless,  and  upon  the  last  lee  foam 
Leaps  into  air  beyond  it,  so  the  soul 
Upon  the  Alpine  ocean  mountain-toss'd, 
Incessant  carried  up  to  heaven,  and  plunged 
To  darkness,  and  still  wet  with  drops  of 

death 

Held  into  light  eternal,  and  again 
Cast  down,  to  be  again  uplift  in  vast 
And  infinite  succession,  cannot  stay 
The  mad  momentum,  but  in  frenzied  sight 
Of  horizontal  clouds  and  mists  and  skies 
And  the  untried  Inane,  springs  on  the  surge 
Of  things,  and  passing  matter  by  a  force 
Material,  thro'  vacuity  careers, 
Rising  and  falling. 

Doctor.          And  my  Shakespeare  !     Call 
Milton  your  Alps,  and  which  is  he  among 
The  tops  of  Andes  ?     Keep  your  Paradise, 
And  Eves,  and  Adams,  but  give   me  the 

Earth 
That  Shakespeare  drew,  and  make  it  grave 

and  gay 
With  Shakespeare's  men  and  women ;  let 

me  laugh 
Or  weep  with  them,  and  you  —  a  wager,  — 

aye, 

A  wager  by  my  faith  —  either  his  muse 
Was  the  recording  angel,  or  that  hand 
Cherubic,  which  fills  up  the  Book  of  Life, 
Caught  what   the  last  relaxing   gripe   let 

fall 

By  a  death-bed   at  Stratford,  and  hence- 
forth 
Holds  Shakespeare's  pen.     Now  strain  your 

sinews,  poet, 

And  top  your  Pelion,  —  Milton  Switzerland, 
And  English  Shakespeare  — 

Balder.  This  dear  English  land  ! 

This  happy  England,  loud  with  brooks  and 

birds, 

Shining  with  harvests,  cool  with  dewy  trees, 
And  bloom'd  from  hill  to  dell ;  but  whose 

best  flowers 

Are  daughters,  and  Ophelia  still  more  fair 
Than  any  rose  she  weaves ;  whose  noblest 

floods 


37° 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


The  pulsing  torrent  of  a  nation's  heart ; 
Whose  forests  stronger  than  her  native  oaks 
Are   living   men  ;  and   whose   unfathom'd 

lakes 

Forever  calm  the  unforgotten  dead 
In  quiet  graveyards  willow'd  seemly  round, 
O'er  which  To-day  bends  sad,  and  sees  his 

face. 

Whose  rocks  are  rights,  consolidate  of  old 
Thro'  unremember'd  years,  around  whose 

base 

The  ever-surging  peoples  roll  and  roar 
Perpetual,  as  around  her  cliffs  the  seas 
That  only  wash  them  whiter ;  and  whose 

mountains, 
Souls  that  from  this  mere  footing  of  the 

earth 
Lift  their  great  virtues  thro'  all  clouds  of 

Fate 

Up  to  the  very  heavens,  and  make  them  rise 
To  keep  the  gods  above  us  ! 

ON   THE    DEATH    OF   MRS. 
BROWNING 

WHICH   of  the   Angels   sang  so   well    in 

Heaven 

That  the  approving  Archon  of  the  quire 
Cried,  "  Come  up  hither !  "  and  he,  going 

higher, 

Carried  a  note  out  of  the  choral  seven  ; 
Whereat  that  cherub  to  whom  choice  is 

given 

Among  the  singers  that  on  earth  aspire 
Beckon'd  thee  from  us,  and  thou,  and  thy 

lyre 

Sudden  ascended  out  of  sight  ?     Yet  even 
In  Heaven  thou  weepest  !    Well,  true  wife, 

to  weep  ! 

Thy  voice  doth  so  betray  that  sweet  offence 
That  no  new  call  should  more  exalt  thee 

hence 

But  for  thy  harp.  Ah,  lend  it,  and  such  grace 
Shall  still  advance  thy  neighbor  that  thou 

keep 
Thy  seat,  and  at  thy  side  a  vacant  place  ! 

FRAGMENT    OF   A    SLEEP-SONG 

SISTER  Simplicitie, 
Sing,  sing  a  song  to  me, 
Sing  me  to  sleep. 


Some  legend  low  and  long, 
Slow  as  the  summer  song 
Of  the  dull  Deep. 

Some  legend  long  and  low, 
Whose  equal  ebb  and  flow 
To  and  fro  creep 
On  the  dim  marge  of  gray 
'Tween  the  soul's  night  and  day, 
Washing  "  awake  "  away 
Into  "  asleep." 

Some  legend  low  and  long, 
Never  so  weak  or  strong 
As  to  let  go 

While  it  can  hold  this  heart 
Withouten  sigh  or  smart, 
Or  as  to  hold  this  heart 
When  it  sighs  "  No." 

Some  long  low  swaying  song, 
As  the  sway'd  shadow  long 
Sways  to  and  fro 
Where,  thro'  the  crowing  cocks, 
And  by  the  swinging  clocks, 
Some  weary  mother  rocks 
Some  weary  woe. 

Sing  up  and  down  to  me 

Like  a  dream-boat  at  sea, 

So,  and  still  so, 

Float  through  the  "  then  "  and  "  when," 

Rising  from  when  to  then, 

Sinking  from  then  to  when 

While  the  waves  go. 

Low  and  high,  high  and  low, 

Now  and  then,  then  and  now, 

Now,  now  ; 

And  when  the  now  is  then,  and  when  the 

then  is  now, 
And  when  the  low  is  high,  and  when  the 

high  is  low, 
Low,  low ; 

Let  me  float,  let  the  boat 
Go,  go  ; 

Let  me  glide,  let  me  slide 
Slow,  slow  ; 

Gliding  boat,  sliding  boat, 
Slow,  slow  ; 
Glide  away,  slide  away 
So,  so. 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


FROM   "MODERN   LOVE" 

"  ALL   OTHER   JOYS  " 

ALL  other  joys  of  life  he  strove  to  warm, 
And  magnify,  and  catch  them  to  his  lip  ; 
But  they  had  suffer'd  shipwreck  with  the 

ship, 

And  gaz'd  upon  him  sallow  from  the  storm. 
Or  if  Delusion  came,  't  was  but  to  show 
The  coming  minute  mock  the  one  that  went. 
Cold  as  a  mountain  in  its  star-pitch'd  tent 
Stood  high  Philosophy,  less  friend  than  foe  ; 
Whom  self-caged  Passion,  from  its  prison- 
bars, 

Is  always  watching  with  a  wondering  hate. 
Not  till  the  fire  is  dying  in  the  grate, 
Look  we  for  any  kinship  with  the  stars. 
Oh,  wisdom  never  comes  when  it  is  gold, 
And  the  great  price  we  pay  for  it  full  worth  ! 
We  have  it  only  when  we  are  half  earth  : 
Little  avails  that  coinage  to  the  old  ! 

HIDING   THE   SKELETON 

AT  dinner  she  is  hostess,  I  am  host. 

Went  the  feast  ever  cheerfuller  ?  She 
keeps 

The  topic  over  intellectual  deeps 

In  buoyancy  afloat.     They  see  no  ghost. 

With  sparkling  surface-eyes  we  ply  the 
ball: 

It  is  in  truth  a  most  contagious  game  ; 

HIDING  THE  SKELETON  shall  be  its  name. 

Such  play  as  this  the  devils  might  appall  ! 

But  here 's  the  greater  wonder  ;  in  that 
we, 

Enamor'd  of  our  acting  and  our  wits, 

Admire  each  other  like  true  hypocrites. 

Warm-lighted  glances,  Love's  Ephemerae, 

Shoot  gayly  o'er  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 

We  waken  envy  of  our  happy  lot. 

Fast,  sweet,  and  golden,  shows  our  mar- 
riage-knot. 

Dear  guests,  you  now  have  seen  Love's 
corpse-light  shine  ! 

THE   COIN  OF   PITY 

THEY  say  that  Pity  in  Love's  service  dwells, 
A  porter  at  the  rosy  temple's  gate. 
I  miss'd  him  going  :  but  it  is  my  fate 
To  come  upon  him  now  beside  his  wells  ; 


Whereby  I  know  that  I  Love's  temple  leave, 
And  that  the  purple  doors  have  clos'd  behind. 
Poor  soul  !  if  in  those  early  days  unkind 
Thy  power  to  sting  had  been  but  power  to 

grieve, 

We  now  might  with  an  equal  spirit  meet, 
And  not  be  match'd  like  innocence  and  vice. 
She  for  the  Temple's  worship  has  paid  price, 
And  takes  the  coin  of  Pity  as  a  cheat. 
She  sees  thro'  simulation  to  the  bone  : 
What 's  best  in  her  impels  her  to  the  worst. 
Never,  she  cries,  shall  Pity  soothe  Love's 

thirst, 
Or  foul  hypocrisy  for  truth  atone  ! 

ONE   TWILIGHT   HOUR 

WE  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky, 
And  in  the  osier-isle  we  heard  their  noise. 
We  had  not  to  look  back  on  summer  joys, 
Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye  ; 
But  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth 
Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side. 
The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride. 
Love  that  had  robb'd  us  so,  thus  bless'd  our 

dearth  ! 

The  pilgrims  of  the  year  wax'd  very  loud 
In  multitudinous  chatterings,  as  the  flood 
Full  brown  came  from  the  west,  and  like 

pale  blood 

Expanded  to  the  upper  crimson  cloud. 
Love,  that  had  robb'd  us  of  immortal  things, 
This  little  moment  mercifully  gave, 
And  still  I  see  across  the  twilight  wave 
The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her 

wings. 

JUGGLING  JERRY 

PITCH  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse 
grazes  : 

By  the  old  hedge-side  we  '11  halt  a  stage. 
It 's  nigh  my  last  above  the  daisies  : 

My  next  leaf  '11  be  man's  blank  page. 
Yes,  my  old  girl  !  and  it 's  no  use  crying  : 

Juggler,  constable,  king,  must  bow. 
One  that  outjuggles  all 's  been  spying 

Long  to  have  me,  and  he  has  me  now. 

We  've  travell'd  times  to  this  old  common  : 
Often  we  've  hung  our  pots  in  the  gorse. 

We  've  had  a  stirring  life,  old  woman  ! 
You,  and  I,  and  the  old  gray  horse. 


372 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Races,  and  fairs,  and  royal  occasions, 
Found  us  coining  to  their  call  : 

Now  they  '11  miss  us  at  our  stations  : 
There 's  a  Juggler  outjuggles  all  ! 

Up  goes  the  lark,  as  if  all  were  jolly  ! 

Over  the  duck-pond  the  willow  shakes. 
Easy  to  think  that  grieving 's  folly, 

When  the  hand  's  firm  as  driven  stakes  ! 
Ay  !  when  we  're  strong,  and  braced,  and 
manful, 

Life  's  a  sweet  fiddle  ;  but  we  're  a  batch 
Born  to  become  the  Great  Juggler's  han'- 
ful: 

Balls  he  shies  up,  and  is  safe  to  catch. 

Here  's  where  the  lads  of  the  village  cricket ; 

I  was  a  lad  not  wide  from  here  ; 
Couldn't   I  whip    off    the  bale  from    the 

wicket  ? 

Like  an  old  world  those  days  appear  ! 
Donkey,  sheep,    geese,   and   thatch'd   ale- 
house —  I  know  them  ! 
They  are  old  friends  of  my  halts,  and 

seem, 

Somehow,  as  if  kind  thanks  I  owe  them  : 
Juggling  don't  hinder  the  heart's  esteem. 

Juggling 's  no  sin,  for  we  must  have  victual  ; 

Nature  allows  us  to  bait  for  the  fool. 
Holding  one's  own  makes  us  juggle  no  lit- 
tle; 
But,  to  increase  it,  hard  juggling  's  the 

rule. 

You  that  are  sneering  at  my  profession, 
Have  n't  you  juggled  a  vast  amount  ? 
There  's  the  Prime  Minister,  in  one  Ses- 
sion, 

Juggles   more    games    than  my  sins  '11 
count. 

I  've  murder'd  insects  with  mock  thunder  : 

Conscience,  for  that,  in  men  don't  quail. 
I  've  made  bread  from  the  bump  of  wonder  : 

That 's  my  business,  and  there  's  my  tale. 
Fashion  and  rank  all  prais'd  the  professor  ; 

Ay  !  and  I  've  had  my  smile    from  the 

Queen : 
Bravo,  Jerry  !  she  meant :  God  bless  her ! 

Ain't  this  a  sermon  on  that  scene  ? 

I  've  studied  men  from  my  topsy-turvy 
Close,  and,  I  reckon,  rather  true. 

Some  are  fine  fellows  :  some,  right  scurvy  : 
Most,  a  dash  between  the  two. 


But  it 's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  makes  me 
Think  more  kindly  of  the  race  ; 

And  it 's  a  woman,  old  girl,  that  shakes  me 
When  the  Great  Juggler  I  must  face. 

We  two  were  married,  due  and  legal : 

Honest  we  've  liv'd  since  we  've  been  one. 
Lord  !  I  could  then  jump  like  an  eagle  : 

You  danced  bright  as  a  bit  o'  the  sun. 
Birds   in    a    May-bush    we    were !    right 
merry  ! 

All  night  we  kiss'd  —  we  juggled  all  day. 
Joy  was  the  heart  of  Juggling  Jerry  ! 

Now  from  his  old  girl  he  's  juggled  away. 

It 's  past  parsons  to  console  us  : 

No,  nor  no  doctor  fetch  for  me  : 
I  can  die  without  my  bolus  ; 

Two  of  a  trade,  lass,  never  agree  ! 
Parson    and    Doctor  !  —  don't    they     love 
rarely, 

Fighting  the  devil  in  other  men's  fields  ! 
Stand  up  yourself  and  match  him  fairly  ; 

Then  see  how  the  rascal  yields  ! 

I,  lass,  have  liv*d  no  gypsy,  flaunting 

Finery  while  his  poor  helpmate  grubs  ; 
Coin  I  've  stor'd,  and  you  won't  be  wanting  : 

You  shan't  beg  from  the  troughs  and  tubs. 
Nobly  you  've   stuck  to  me,  though  in  his 
kitchen 

Many  a  Marquis  would  hail  you  Cook  ! 
Palaces  you  could  have  rul'd  and  grown  rich 
in, 

But  your  old  Jerry  you  never  forsook. 

Hand  up  the  chirper  !  ripe  ale  winks  in  it  ; 

Let 's  have  comfort  and  be  at  peace. 
Once  a  stout  draught  made  me  light  as  a 

linnet. 

Cheer  up  !  the  Lord  must  have  his  lease. 
May  be  —  for  none  see  in  that  black  hol- 
low— 
It 's  just  a  place  where  we  're  held    in 

pawn, 
And,  when  the  Great  Juggler  makes  us  to 

swallow, 

It's  just  the  sword-trick  —  I  ain't  quite 
gone  ! 

Yonder  came  smells  of  the  gorse,  so  nutty, 
Gold-like  and  warm  ;  it 's  the  prime  oi 
May. 

Better  than  mortar,  brick,  and  putty, 
Is  God's  house  on  a  blowing  day. 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


373 


Lean  me  more  up  the  mound  ;  now  I  feel 

it: 
All     the    old     heath-smells  !     Ain't    it 

strange  ? 
There  's  the  world  laughing,  as  if  to  conceal 

it, 
But  He  's  by  us,  juggling  the  change. 

I  mind  it  well,  by  the  sea-beach  lying, 
Once  —  it 's  long  gone  —  when  two  gulls 

we  beheld, 

Which,  as  the  moon  got  up,  were  flying 
Down    a    big    wave    that    spark'd    and 

swell'd. 

Crack  !  went  a  gun  :  one  fell  :  the  second 
Wheel'd  round  him  twice,  and  was  off 

for  new  luck  : 
There    in     the     dark     her    white     wing 

beckon'd  :  — 

Drop  me  a  kiss  —  I  'm  the  bird    dead- 
struck  ! 


THE    LARK  ASCENDING 

HE  rises  and  begins  to  round, 
He  drops  the  silver  chain  of  sound 
Of  many  links  without  a  break, 
In  chirrup,  whistle,  slur  and  shake, 
All  intervolv'd  and  spreading  wide, 
Like  water-dimples  down  a  tide 
Where  ripple  ripple  overcurls 
And  eddy  into  eddy  whirls  ; 
A  press  of  hurried  notes  that  run 
So  fleet  they  scarce  are  more  than  one, 
Yet  changingly  the  trills  repeat 
And  linger  ringing  while  they  fleet, 
Sweet  to  the  quick  o'  the  ear,  and  dear 
To  her  beyond  the  handmaid  ear, 
Who  sits  beside  our  inner  springs, 
Too  often  dry  for  this  he  brings, 
Which  seems  the  very  jet  of  earth 
At  sight  of  sun,  her  music's  mirth, 
As  up  he  wings  the  spiral  stair, 
A  song  of  light,  and  pierces  air 
With  fountain  ardor,  fountain  play, 
To  reach  the  shining  tops  of  day, 
And  drink  in  everything  discern'd 
An  ecstasy  to  music  turn'd, 
Impell'd  by  what  his  happy  bill 
Disperses  ;  drinking,  showering  still, 
Unthinking  save  that  he  may  give 
His  voice  the  outlet,  there  to  live 
Renew'd  in  endless  notes  of  glee, 
So  thirsty  of  his  voice  is  he, 


For  all  to  hear  and  all  to  know 

That  he  is  joy,  awake,  aglow, 

The  tumult  of  the  heart  to  hear 

Through  pureness  filter'd  crystal-clear, 

And  know  the  pleasure  sprinkled  bright 

By  simple  singing  of  delight, 

Shrill,  irreflective,  unrestrain'd, 

Rapt,  ringing,  on  the  jet  sustain 'd 

Without  a  break,  without  a  fall, 

Sweet-silvery,  sheer  lyrical, 

Perennial,  quavering  up  the  chord 

Like  myriad  dews  of  sunny  sward 

That  trembling  into  fulness  shine, 

And  sparkle  dropping  argentine  ; 

Such  wooing  as  the  ear  receives 

From  zephyr  caught  in  choric  leaves 

Of  aspens  when  their  chattering  net 

Is  flush'd  to  white  with  shivers  wet  ; 

And  such  the  water-spirit's  chime 

On  mountain  heights  in  morning's  prime, 

Too  freshly  sweet  to  seem  excess, 

Too  animate  to  need  a  stress  ; 

But  wider  over  many  heads 

The  starry  voice  ascending  spreads, 

Awakening,  as  it  waxes  thin, 

The  best  in  us  to  him  akin  ; 

And  every  face  to  watch  him  rais'd, 

Puts  on  the  light  of  children  prais'd, 

So  rich  our  human  pleasure  ripes 

When  sweetness  on  sincereness  pipes, 

Though  nought  be  promis'd  from  the  seas, 

But  only  a  soft-ruffling  breeze 

Sweep  glittering  on  a  still  content, 

Serenity  in  ravishment. 

For  singing  till  his  heaven  fills, 

'T  is  love  of  earth  that  he  instils, 

And  ever  winging  up  and  up, 

Our  valley  is  his  golden  cup, 

And  he  the  wine  which  overflows 

To  lift  us  with  him  as  he  goes  : 

The  woods  and  brooks,  the  sheep  and  kine 

He  is,  the  hills,  the  human  line, 

The  meadows  green,  the  fallows  brown, 

The  dreams  of  labor  in  the  town  ; 

He  sings  the  sap,  the  quicken'd  veins  ; 

The  wedding  song  of  sun  and  rains 

He  is,  the  dance  of  children,  thanks 

Of  sowers,  shout  of  primrose-banks, 

And  eye  of  violets  while  they  breathe  ; 

All  these  the  circling  song  will  wreathe, 

And  you  shall  hear  the  herb  and  tree, 

The  better  heart  of  men  shall  see, 

Shall  feel  celestially,  as  long 

As  you  crave  nothing  save  the  song. 


374 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


Was  never  voice  of  ours  could  say 
Our  inmost  in  the  sweetest  way, 
Like  yonder  voice  aloft,  and  link 
All  hearers  in  the  song  they  drink  : 
Our  wisdom  speaks  from  failing  blood, 
Our  passion  is  too  full  in  flood, 
We  want  the  key  of  his  wild  note 
Of  truthful  in  a  tuneful  throat, 
The  song  seraphically  free 
Of  taint  of  personality, 
So  pure  that  it  salutes  the  suns 
The  voice  of  one  for  millions, 
In  whom  the  millions  rejoice 
For  giving  their  one  spirit  voice. 

Yet  men  have  we,  whom  we  revere, 
Now"  names,  and  men  still  housing  here, 
Whose  lives,  by  many  a  battle-dint 
Defaced,  and  grinding  wheels  on  flint, 
Yield    substance,    though    they    sing    not, 

sweet 

For  song  our  highest  heaven  to  greet : 
Whom  heavenly  singing  gives  us  new, 
Enspheres  them  brilliant  in  our  blue, 
From  firmest  base  to  farthest  leap, 
Because  their  love  of  Earth  is  deep, 
And  they  are  warriors  in  accord 
With  life  to  serve  and  pass  reward, 
So  touching  purest  and  so  heard 
In  the  brain's  reflex  of  yon  bird  ; 
Wherefore  their  soul  in  me,  or  mine, 
Through  self-forgetfulness  divine, 
In  them,  that  song  aloft  maintains, 
To  fill  the  sky  and  thrill  the  plains 
With  showerings  drawn  from  human  stores, 
As  he  to  silence  nearer  soars, 
Extends  the  world  at  wings  and  dome, 
More  spacious  making  more  our  home, 
Till  lost  on  his  aerial  rings 
In  light,  and  then  the  fancy  sings. 


LUCIFER   IN   STARLIGHT 

ON  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tir'd  of  his   dark   dominion    swung    the 

fiend 

Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screen' d, 
Where  sinners  hugg'd  their  spectre  of  re- 
pose. 

Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  Western  wing  he  lean'd, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Africa  careen'd, 
Now  the    black   planet    shadow'd   Arctic 
snows. 


Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  prick'd 

his  scars 

With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He    reach'd  a  middle  height,  and  at   the 

stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  look'd, 

and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  march'd,  rank  on 

rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law. 


THE    SPIRIT   OF   SHAKESPEARE 


THY  greatest  knew  thee,  Mother  Earth  ; 

unsour'd 
He  knew  thy  sons.     He  prob'd  from  hell  to 

hell 

Of  human  passions,  but  of  love  deflower'd 
His  wisdom  was  not,  for  he  knew  thee  well. 
Thence  came  the  honey'd  corner  at  his  lips, 
The    conquering  smile  wherein    his   spirit 

sails 
Calm  as  the  God  who  the  white  sea-wave 

whips, 

Yet  full  of  speech  and  intershifting  tales, 
Close  mirrors  of   us  :   thence  had  he  the 

laugh 
We  feel  is  thine  ;  broad  as   ten  thousand 

beeves 
At  pasture  !  thence  thy  songs,  that  winnow 

chaff 
From  grain,    bid    sick    Philosophy's    last 

leaves 

Whirl,  if  they  have  no  response  —  they  en- 
forced 
To  fatten   Earth  when  from  her  soul   di« 

vorced. 


How  smiles  he  at  a  generation  rank'd 
In  gloomy  noddings  over  life  !     They  pass. 
Not  he  to  feed  upon  a  breast  unthank'd, 
Or  eye  a  beauteous  face  in  a  crack'd  glass. 
But  he  can  spy  that  little  twist  of  brain 
Which  mov'd  some  weighty  leader  of  the 

blind, 

Unwitting  't  was  the  goad  of  personal  pain, 
To  view  in  curs'd  eclipse  our  Mother's  mind, 
And  show  us  of  some  rigid  harridan 
The  wretched  bondmen  till  the  end  of  time 
O  liv'd  the  Master  now  to  paint  us  Man, 
That  little  twist  of  brain  would  ring  a  chime 


GEORGE  MEREDITH  —  SEBASTIAN   EVANS 


375 


Of  whence  it  came  and  what  it  caus'd,  to 

start 
Thunders  of    laughter,   clearing    air  and 

heart. 

THE   TWO    MASKS 

MELPOMENE  among  her  livid  people, 
Ere  stroke  of  lyre,  upon  Thaleia  looks, 
Warn'd  by  old  contests  that  one  museful 

ripple, 

Along  those  lips  of  rose  with  tendril  hooks, 
Forbodes  disturbance  in  the  springs  of  pa- 
thos, 

Perchance  may  change  of  masks  midway 
demand, 


Albeit  the  man  rise  mountainous  as  Athos, 
The  woman  wild  as  Cape  Leucadia  stand. 

For  this  the  Comic  Muse  exacts  of  crea- 
tures 

Appealing  to  the  fount  of  tears  :  that  they 

Strive  never  to  outleap  our  human  fea- 
tures, 

And  do  Right  Reason's  ordinance  obey, 

In  peril  of  the  hum  to  laughter  nighest. 

But  prove  they  under  stress  of  action's 
fire 

Nobleness,  to  that  test  of  Reason  high- 
est, 

She  bows  :  she  waves  them  for  the  loftier 
lyre. 


A   DIRGE   FOR   SUMMER 

SUMMER  dietb  :  —  o'er  his  bier 
Chant  a  requiem  low  and  clear  I 
Chant  it  for  his  dying  flowers, 
Chant  it  for  his  flying  hours. 
Let  them  wither  all  together 

Now  the  world  is  past  the  prime 
Of  the  golden  olden-time. 

Let  them  die,  and  dying  Summer 
Yield  his  kingdom  to  the  comer 
From  the  islands  of  the  West  : 
He  is  weary,  let  him  rest ! 
And  let  mellow  Autumn's  yellow 
Fall. upon  the  leafy  prime 
Of  the  golden  olden-time. 

Go,  ye  days,  your  deeds  are  done  ! 
Be  yon  clouds  about  the  sun 
Your  imperial  winding-sheet ; 
Let  the  night  winds  as  they  fleet 
Tell  the  story  of  the  glory 

Of  the  free  great-hearted  prime 
Of  the  golden  olden-time. 

WHAT    THE    TRUMPETER   SAID 

AT  a  pot-house  bar  as  I  chanced  to  pass 
I  saw  three  men  by  the  flare  of  the  gas  : 
Soldiers  two,  with  their  red-coats  gay, 
And  the  third  from  Chelsea,  a  pensioner 
gray, 


With  three  smart  hussies  as  bold  as  they. 
Drunk  and  swearing  and  swaggering  all, 
With  their  foul  songs  scaring  the  quiet 

Mall, 
While  the  clash  of  glasses  and  clink  of 

spurs 

Kept  time  to  the  roystering  quiristers, 
And  the  old  man  sat  and  stamp'd  with  his 

stump  : 
When    I  heard  a    trumpeter  trumpet    a 

trump  :  — 
"  To  the  wars  !  —  To  the  wars  ! 

March,  march  ! 

Quit  your  petty  little  tittle-tattle, 
Quit  the  bottle  for  the  battle, 

And  march  ! 

To  the  wars,  to  the  wars  ! 
March,  march  with  a  tramp  ! 

To  the  wars  ! 
Up,  you  toper  at  your  tipple,  bottle  after 

bottle  at  the  tap  ! 

Quit  your  pretty  dirty  Betty  !     Clap  her 
garter  in  your  cap, 

And  march  ! 

To  the  trench  and  the  sap  I 
To  the  little  victual  of  the  camp  ! 
To  the  little  liquor  of  the  camp  ! 
To  the  breach  and  the  storm  ! 
To  the  roaring  and  the  glory  of  the 

wars ! 
To  the  rattle  and  the  battle  and  the 

scars  ! " 
Trumpeter,  trumpet  it  out ! 


376 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


THE   UNSEEN   WORLD 

AT    HOME 

WHEN  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turn'd 

To  seek  the  much-frequented  house  : 
I  pass'd  the  door,  and  saw  my  friends 

Feasting  beneath  green  orange-boughs  ; 
From  hand  to  hand  they  push'd  the  wine, 

They  suck'd  the  pulp  of  plum  and  peach  ; 
They  sang,  they  jested,  and  they  laugh'd, 

For  each  was  lov'd  of  each. 

I  listen'd  to  their  honest  chat : 

Said  one  :  "  To-morrow  we  shall  be 
Plod  plod  along  the  featureless  sands, 

And  coasting  miles  and  miles  of  sea." 
Said  one  :  "  Before  the  turn  of  tide 

We  will  achieve  the  eyrie-seat." 
Said  one  :  "  To-morrow  shall  be  like 

To-day,  but  much  more  sweet." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  they,  strong  with  hope, 

And  dwelt  upon  the  pleasant  way  : 
"  To-morrow,"  cried  they,  one  and  all, 

While  no  one  spoke  of  yesterday. 
Their  life  stood  full  at  blessed  noon  ; 

I,  only  I,  had  pass'd  away  : 
"  To-morrow  and  to-day,"  they  cried  ; 

I  was  of  yesterday. 

I  shiver'd  comfortless,  but  cast 

No  chill  across  the  table-cloth  ; 
I,  all  forgotten,  shiver'd,  sad 

To  stay,  and  yet  to  part  how  loth  : 
I  pass'd  from  the  familiar  room, 

I  who  from  love  had  pass'd  away, 
Like  the  remembrance  of  a  guest 

That  tarrieth  but  a  day. 


REMEMBER 

REMEMBER  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land  ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the 

hand, 

Nor  I  half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more,  day  by  day, 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  plann'd  : 
Only  remember  me  ;  you  understand 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 


Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve  : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige   of  the  thoughts   that   once    1 

had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be 

sad. 

AFTER   DEATH 

THE  curtains  were  half   drawn,  the  floor 

was  swept 

And  strewn  with  rushes,  rosemary  and  may 
Lay  thick  upon  the  bed  on  which  I  lay, 
Where    through    the    lattice    ivy-shadows 

crept. 

He  lean'd  above  me,  thinking  that  I  slept 
And  could  not  hear  him  ;  but  I  heard  him 

say  : 
"  Poor  child,  poor  child  :  "  and  as  he  turn'd 

away 

Came  a  deep  silence,  and  I  knew  he  wept. 
He  did  not  touch  the  shroud,  or  raise  the 

fold 
That   hid   my  face,  or  take  my  hand  in 

his, 

Or  ruffle  the  smooth  pillows  for  my  head  : 
He  did  not  love  me  living  ;  but  once  dead 
He  pitied  me  ;  and  very  sweet  it  is 
To  know  he  still  is  warm  though  I  am  cold. 


WIFE   TO   HUSBAN?D 

PARDON  the  faults  in  me, 
For  the  love  of  years  ago  : 

Good-by. 

I  must  drift  across  the  sea, 
I  must  sink  into  the  snow, 
I  must  die. 

You  can  bask  in  this  sun, 
You  can  drink  wine,  and  eat 

Good-by. 

I  must  gird  myself  and  run, 
Though  with  unready  feet : 
i  must  die. 

Blank  sea  to  sail  upon, 
Cold  bed  to  sleep  in  : 
Good-by. 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA   ROSSETTI 


377 


While  you  clasp,  I  must  be  gone 
For  all  your  weeping  : 
I  must  die. 

A  kiss  for  one  friend, 
And  a  word  for  two,  — 

Good-by  :  — 

A  lock  that  you  must  send, 
A  kindness  you  must  do  : 
I  must  die. 

Not  a  word  for  you, 
Not  a  lock  or  kiss, 

Good-by. 

We,  one,  must  part  in  two  ; 
Verily  death  is  this  : 
I  must  die. 


UP-HILL 

DOES  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long 
day? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 
A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  be- 
gin. 
May  not    the  darkness  hide  it   from  my 

face? 
You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must   I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in 

sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that 
door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will   there   be  beds   for  me  and  all  who 
seek? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 


"  IT    IS    FINISHED" 

DEAR  Lord,  let  me  recount  to  Thee 
Some  of  the  great  things  thou  hast  done 

For  me,  even  me 

Thy  little  one. 


It  was  not  I  that  car'd  for  Thee,  — 
But  Thou  didst  set  Thy  heart  upon 

Me,  even  me 

Thy  little  one. 

And  therefore  was  it  sweet  to  Thee 
To  leave  Thy  Majesty  and  Throne, 

And  grow  like  me 

A  Little  One, 

A  swaddled  Baby  on  the  knee 
Of  a  dear  Mother  of  Thine  own, 

Quite  weak  like  me 

Thy  little  one. 

Thou  didst  assume  my  misery, 
And  reap  the  harvest  I  had  sown, 

Comforting  me 

Thy  little  one. 

Jerusalem  and  Galilee,  — 

Thy  love  embraced  not  those  alone, 

But  also  me 

Thy  little  one. 

Thy  unblemish'd  Body  on  the  Tree 
Was  bar'd  and  broken  to  atone 

For  me,  for  me 

Thy  little  one. 

Thou  loved st  me  upon  the  Tree, — 
Still  me,  hid  by  the  ponderous  stone,  — 

Me  always,  —  me 

Thy  little  one. 

And  love  of  me  arose  with  Thee 
When  death  and  hell  lay  overthrown  : 

Thou  lovedst  me 

Thy  little  one. 

And  love  of  me  went  up  with  Thee 
To  sit  upon  Thy  Father's  Throne  : 

Thou  lovest  me 

Thy  little  one  : 

Lord,  as  Thou  me,  so  would  I  Thee 
Love  in  pure  love's  communion, 

For  Thou  lov'st  me 

Thy  little  one  : 

Which  love  of  me  brings  back  with  Thee 
To  Judgment  when  the  Trump  is  blown, 

Still  loving  me 

Thy  little  one. 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


FROM    "MONNA    INNOMINATA" 

ABNEGATION 

IF  there  be  any  one  can  take  my  place 

And  make  you  happy  whom  I  grieve  to 
grieve, 

Think  not  that  I  can  grudge  it,  but  be- 
lieve 

I  do  commend  you  to  that  nobler  grace, 

That  readier  wit  than  mine,  that  sweeter 
face  ; 

Yea,  since  your  riches  make  me  rich,  con- 
ceive 

I  too  am  crown'd,  while  bridal  crowns  I 
weave, 

And  thread  the  bridal  dance  with  jocund 
pace. 

For  if  I  did  not  love  you,  it  might  be 

That  I  should  grudge  you  some  one  dear 
delight  ; 

But  since  the  heart  is  yours  that  was  mine 
own, 

Your  pleasure  is  my  pleasure,  right  my 
right, 

Your  honorable  freedom  makes  me  free, 

And  you  companion'd  I  am  not  alone. 

TRUST 

IF  I  could  trust  mine  own  self  with  your 

fate, 
Shall    I    not    rather    trust    it    in     God's 

hand? 
Without    whose   will    one    lily   doth    not 

stand, 

Nor  sparrow  fall  at  his  appointed  date  ; 
Who  numbereth  the  innumerable  sand, 
Who  weighs   the  wind   and  water  with  a 

weight, 
To  whom  the  world  is  neither  small  nor 

great, 
Whose  knowledge  foreknew  every  plan  we 

plaun'd. 
Searching  my  heart  for  all   that   touches 

you, 

I  find  there  only  love  and  love's  good- 
will 

Helpless  to  help  and  impotent  to  do, 
Of  understanding  dull,  of  sight  most  dim  ; 
And  therefore  I  commend  you  back  to 

Him 
Whose  love  your  love's  capacity  can  fill. 


FLUTTERED    WINGS 

THE  splendor  of  the  kindling  day, 
The  splendor  of  the  setting  sun, 
These  move  my  soul  to  wend  its  way, 

And  have  done 

With  all  we  grasp  and  toil  amongst  and 
say. 

The  paling  roses  of  a  cloud, 

The  fading  bow  that  arches  space, 
These  woo  my  fancy  toward  my  shroud  ,• 

Toward  the  place 

Of  faces  veil'd,  and  heads  discrown'd  and 
bow'd. 

The  nation  of  the  awful  stars, 

The  wandering   star    whose    blaze   is 

brief, 
These  make  me  beat  against   the  bars 

Of  my  grief  ; 
My  tedious  grief,  twin  to  the  life  it  mars. 

O  fretted  heart  toss'd  to  and  fro, 

So  fain  to  flee,  so  fain  to  rest  ! 

All  glories  that  are  high  or  low, 

East  or  west, 
Grow  dim  to  thee  who  art  so  fain  to  go. 


PASSING   AND   GLASSING 

ALL  things  that  pass 
Are  woman's  looking-glass  ; 
They  show  her  how  her  bloom  must  fade, 
And  she  herself  be  laid 
With  wither'd  roses  in  the  shade ; 

With  wither'd  roses  and  the  fallen  peach, 
Unlovely,  out  of  reach 
Of  summer  joy  that  was. 

All  things  that  pass 
Are  woman's  tiring-glass  ; 
The  faded  lavender  is  sweet, 
Sweet  the  dead  violet 
Cull'd  and  laid  by  and  car'd  for  yet  ; 
The  dried-up  violets  and  dried  lavender 
Still  sweet,  may  comfort  her, 
Nor  need  she  cry  Alas  ! 

All  things  that  pass 
Are  wisdom's  looking-glass  ; 
Being  full  of  hope  and  fear,  and  still 
Brimful  of  good  or  ill, 
According  to  our  work  and  will ; 


CHRISTINA  GEORGINA   ROSSETTI 


379 


For  there  is  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun  ; 
Our  doings  have  been  done, 
And  that  which  shall  be  was. 


THE   THREAD   OF    LIFE 

THE  irresponsive  silence  of  the  land, 
The  irresponsive  sounding  of  the  sea, 
Speak  both  one  message  of  one  sense  to 

me  :  — 

Aloof,  aloof,  we  stand  aloof,  so  stand 
Thou  too  aloof,  bound  with  the  flawless 

band 

Of  inner  solitude  ;  we  bind  not  thee  ; 
But  who  from  thy  self -chain  shall  set .  thee 

free? 
What   heart  shall  touch  thy  heart  ?  what 

hand  thy  hand  ?  — 
And  I  am  sometimes  proud  and  sometimes 

meek, 

And  sometimes  I  remember  days  of  old 
When  fellowship  seem'd  not  so  far  to  seek 
And  all  the  world  and  I  seem'd  much  less 

cold, 

And  at  the  rainbow's  foot  lay  surely  gold, 
And   hope  felt  strong  and    life  itself    not 

weak. 


FROM  "LATER   LIFE" 


VI 


WE  lack,  yet  cannot  fix  upon  the  lack : 
Not   this,    nor   that  ;   yet   somewhat,   cer- 
tainly. 

We  see  the  things  we  do  not  yearn  to  see 
Around  us  :  and  what  see  we  glancing  back  ? 
Lost  hopes  that  leave  our  hearts  upon  the 

rack, 
Hopes  that  were  never  ours  yet  seem'd  to 

be, 
For  which  we  steer'd  on  life's  salt  stormy 

sea 

Braving  the  sunstroke  and  the  frozen  pack. 
If  thus  to  look  behind  is  all  in  vain, 
And  all  in  vain  to  look  to  left  or  right, 
Why  face  we  not  our  future  once  again, 
Launching  with  hardier  hearts  across  the 

main, 
Straining  dim  eyes  to  catch  the  invisible 

sight, 
And   strong   to  bear  ourselves  in  patient 

pain  ? 


IX 

STAR  Sirius  and  the  Pole  Star  dwell  afar 
Beyond     the    drawings     each    of    other's 

strength  : 

One  blazes  through  the  brief  bright  sum- 
mer's length 

Lavishing  life-heat  from  a  flaming  car ; 
While  one  unchangeable  upon  a  throne 
Broods  o'er  the  frozen  heart  of  earth 

alone, 

Content  to  reign  the  bright  particular  star 
Of   some    who    wander   or    of    some   who 

groan. 
They  own    no    drawings    each  of   other's 

strength, 

Nor  vibrate  in  a  visible  sympathy, 
Nor  veer  along  their  courses  each  toward 

each  : 

Yet  are  their  orbits  pitch'd  in  harmony 
Of  one  dear  heaven,  across  whose  depth 

and  length 
Mayhap  they  talk  together  without  speech. 

AN   ECHO  FROM  WILLOWWOOD 

"  OH  YE,   ALL  YE  THAT  WALK  IN   WILLOW- 
WOOD  " 

Two  gaz'd  into  a  pool,  he  gaz'd  and  she, 
Not  hand  in  hand,  yet    heart   in  heart,  I 

think, 

Pale  and  reluctant  on  the  water's  brink, 
As  on  the  brink  of  parting  which  must  be. 
Each  eyed  the  other's  aspect,  she  and  he, 
Each  felt  one  hungering  heart  leap  up  and 

sink, 
Each   tasted   bitterness   which  both   must 

drink, 

There  on  the  brink  of  life's  dividing  sea. 
Lilies  upon  the  surface,  deep  below 
Two  wistful  faces  craving  each  for  each, 
Resolute  and  reluctant  without  speech  :  — 
A  sudden  ripple  made  the  faces  flow 
One  moment  join'd,  to  vanish  out  of  reach  : 
So  these  hearts  join'd,  and  ah  !  were  parted 


TWIST    ME   A   CROWN 

TWIST  me  a  crown  of  wind-flowers ; 

That  I  may  fly  away 
To  hear  the  singers  at  their  song, 

And  players  at  their  play. 


38o 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


Put  on  your  crown  of  wind-flowers 
But  whither  would  you  go  ? 

Beyond  the  surging  of  the  sea 
And  the  storms  that  blow. 

Alas  !  your  crown  of  wind-fltfwers 
Can  never  make  you  fly  : 

I  twist  them  in  a  crown  to-day, 
And  to-night  they  die. 


GOOD-BY 

"  GOOD-BY  in  fear,  good-by  in  sorrow, 

Good-by,  and  all  in  vain, 
Never  to  meet  again,  my  dear  —  " 

"  Never  to  part  again." 
"  Good-by  to-day,  good-by  to-morrow, 

Good-by  till  earth  shall  wane, 
Never  to  meet  again,  my  dear —  " 
"  Never  to  part  again." 


ftobett,  <£arl  of  itptton 

("OWEN  MEREDITH") 


INDIAN    LOVE-SONG 

MY  body  sleeps  :  my  heart  awakes. 

My  lips  to  breathe  thy  name  are  mov'd 
In  slumber's  ear  :  then  slumber  breaks  ; 

And  I  am  drawn  to  thee,  belov'd. 
Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me, 

Through  sleep,  through  night.     I   hear 
the  rills, 

And  hear  the  leopard  in  the  hills, 
And  down  the  dark  I  feel  to  thee. 

The  vineyards  and  the  villages 

Were  silent  in  the  vales,  the  rocks  ; 
I  follow'd  past  the  myrrhy  trees, 

And  by  the  footsteps  of  the  flocks. 
Wild  honey,  dropp'd  from  stone  to  stone, 

Where  bees  have  been,  my  path  suggests. 

The  winds  are  in  the  eagles'  nests. 
The  moon  is  hid.     I  walk  alone. 

Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me 

Across  the  glimmering  wildernesses, 
And  drawest  me,  my  love,  to  thee, 

With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy  tresses. 
The  world  is  many  :  my  love  is  one  ; 

I  find  no  likeness  for  my  love. 

The  cinnamons  grow  in  the  grove  ; 
The  Golden  Tree  grows  all  alone. 

O  who  hath  seen  her  wondrous  hair, 

Or  seen  my  dove's  eyes  in  the  woods  ? 
Or  found  her  voice  upon  the  air, 

Her  steps  along  the  solitudes  ? 
Or  where  is  beauty  like  to  hers  ? 

She  draweth  me,  she  draweth  me. 

I  sought  her  by  the  incense-tree, 
And  in  the  aloes,  and  in  the  firs. 


Where  art  thou,  O  my  heart's  delight, 
With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy  locks ? 

My  hair  is  wet  with  dews  of  night. 
My  feet  are  torn  upon  the  rocks. 

The  cedarn  scents,  the  spices,  fail 

About  me.     Strange  and  stranger  seems 
The   path.       There   comes   a  sound  of 
streams 

Above  the  darkness  on  the  vale. 

No  trees  drop  gums  ;  but  poison  flowers 

From  rifts  and  clefts  all  round  me  fall  ; 
The  perfumes  of  thy  midnight  bowers, 

The  fragrance  of  thy  chambers,  all 
Is  drawing  me,  is  drawing  me. 

Thy  baths  prepare  ;  anoint  thine  hair  ; 

Open  the  window  :  meet  me  there  : 
I  come  to  thee,  to  thee,  to  thee  ! 

Thy  lattices  are  dark,  my  own. 

Thy  doors  are  still.     My  love,  look  out. 
Arise,  my  dove  with  tender  tone. 

The  camphor-clusters  all  about 
Are  whitening.     Dawn  breaks  silently. 

And  all  my  spirit  with  the  dawn 

Expands  ;  and,  slowly,  slowly  drawn, 
Through  mist  and  darkness  moves  toward 
thee. 


AUX    ITALIENS 

AT  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there  ;  — 
And  she  look'd  like  a  queen  in  a  book, 

that  night, 
With   the   wreath   of  pearl  in  her  raven 

hair, 
And  the  brooch  on  her  breast,  so  bright 


ROBERT,  EARL  OF  LYTTON 


381 


Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 

The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore  ; 

And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor  note 
The'  souls  in  Purgatory. 

The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow  : 
And  who  was  not  thrill'd  in  the  strangest 

way, 
As  we  heard  him  sing,  while  the  gas  burn'd 

low, 
"  Non  ti  scordar  di  me  "  f 

The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Look'd  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then  seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city-gate 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

You  'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had  gone 

back  again, 
For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue  sky, 

To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well !  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat, 
Together,  my  bride-betroth 'd  and  I ; 

My  gaze  was  fix'd  on  my  opera-hat, 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad. 

Like  a  queen  she  leau'd  on  her  full  white 

arm, 
With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had  ; 

So  confident  of  her  charm  ! 

I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that  he  was ! 

Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of  men, 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven, 
Through  a  needle's  eye  he  had  not  to  pass. 

I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure  given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first  love, 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught  for 
years, 

Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last  time, 
When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress-trees, 
together, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime, 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather ; 


Of   that   muslin   dress    (for   the    eve   was 

hot), 
And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden 

chain, 

And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a  knot, 
And  falling  loose  again  ; 

And  the  jasmine-flower  in  her  fair  young 

breast, 

(O  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jasmine- 
flower  !) 

And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his  nest, 
And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife, 
And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back  my 

ring. 
And   it   all   seem'd  then,  in  the  waste  of 

life, 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill, 
Which  the  sentinel  cypress-tree   stands 

over  ; 
And  I  thought  ..."  were  she  only  living 

still, 
How  I  could  forgive  her,  and  love  her  !  " 

And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus,  in 

that  hour, 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  were 

best, 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmine- 
flower 
Which  she  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  so  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me  cold  ! 

Like  the  scent  that  steals  from  the  crum- 
bling sheet 
Where  a  mummy  is  half  unroll'd. 

And  I  turn'd,  and  look'd.     She  was  sitting 

there 

In  a  dim  box,  over  the  stage  ;  and  dress'd 
In   that   muslin  dress  with  that   full  soft 

hair, 
And  that  jasmine  in  her  breast ! 

I  was  here  ;  and  she  was  there  ; 

And  the  glittering  horseshoe  curv'd  be- 
tween :  — 
From  my  bride-betroth'd,  with  her  raven 

hair, 
And  her  sumptuous  scornful  mien, 


382 


VARIOUS    DISTINCTIVE   POETS 


To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  downcast, 
And  over  her  primrose  face  the  shade 

(In  short  from  the  Future  back  to  the  Past), 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 
One  moment  I  look'd.     Then  I  stole  to 

the  door, 
I  travers'd  the  passage  ;  and  down  at  her 

side 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain, 
Or  something  which  never  will  be  ex- 

prest, 
Had   brought   her   back    from   the   grave 

again, 
With  the  jasmine  in  her  breast. 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed  ! 

But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  lov'd  me 

then  ! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet  lips 

said, 
My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 

The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 

She  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  handsome 

still, 
And  but  for  her  .  .  .  well,  we  '11  let  that 

pass, 
She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 

With  her  primrose  face  :  for  old  things 

are  best, 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,   I  prize  it 

above 
The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  fill'd  with  folly  and  sin, 

And  Love  must  cling  where   it  can,  I 
say: 

For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  is  n't  lov'd  every  day. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women 

and  men, 
There 's  a  moment  when  all  would  go 

smooth  and  even, 

If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven. 

But  O  the  smell  of  that  jasmine-flower  ! 
And  O  that  music  !  and  O  the  way 


That   voice    rang    out    from    the    donjon 

tower, 

Non  ti  scordar  di  me, 
N(m  ti  scordar  di  me  ! 

THE   CHESS-BOARD 

MY  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtain'd  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I  play'd  chess  together, 

Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 

Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  Knight ! 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand  ; 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  ; 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  things, 
Moves,  sidling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch  ;  our  glances  meet, 

And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 

Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.  Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  !  the  little  battle  's  done, 
Dispers'd  is  all  its  chivalry  ; 
Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have  we 
'Mid  Life's  perplexing  checkers  made, 
And  many  a  game  with  Fortune  play'd,  — 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least  —  if  (his  alone  ;  — 
That  never,  never,  never  more, 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore 

(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise), 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 
Shut  out  the  world,  and  wintry  weather, 

And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with  eyes, 
Play  chess,  as  then  we  play'd,  together  ! 

TEMPORA   ACTA 
FROM  "BABYLONIA" 

O,  FOR  the  times  which  were  (if  any 
Time  be  heroic)  heroic  indeed  ! 
When  the  men  were  few, 
And  the  deeds  to  do 
Were  mighty,  and  many, 

And  each  man  in  his  hand  held  a  noble 

deed. 

Now  the  deeds  are  few, 
And  the  men  are  many, 

And  each  man  has,  at  most,  but  a  noble 
need. 


ROBERT,    EARL   OF   LYTTON 


383 


THE   DINNER   HOUR 
FROM  "LUCILE" 

O  HOUR  of  all  hours,  the  most  blest  upon 

earth, 
Blest  hour  of  our  dinners  ! 

The  land  of  his  birth; 
The  face  of  his  first  love  ;  the  bills  that  he 

owes  ; 

The  twaddle  of  friends,  and  venom  of  foes; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church  he 

last  went ; 
The   money   he   borrow'd,   the   money   he 

spent ; 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe,  may 

forget, 

And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting;  but  yet 
Never,  never,  oh,  never  !   earth's  luckiest 

sinner 
Hath  unpunish'd  forgotten  the  hour  of  his 

dinner ! 
Indigestion,  that  conscience  of  every  bad 

stomach, 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue  him  with 

some  ache 
Or  some  pain  ;  and  trouble,   remorseless, 

his  best  ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  sleep  of 

Orestes. 

We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and  art  ; 

We  may  live  without  conscience,  and  live 
without  heart  ; 

We  may  live  without  friends  ;  we  may  live 
without  books  ; 

But  civilized  man  cannot  live  without  cooks. 

He  may  live  without  books,  —  what  is 
knowledge  but  grieving  ? 

He  may  live  without  hope,  —  what  is  hope 
but  deceiving  ? 

He  may  live  without  love,  —  what  is  pas- 
sion but  pining  ? 

But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  without 
dining  ? 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DEAD 
LAMBS 

DEATH,  though  already  in  the  world,  as 

yet 

Had  only  tried  his  timorous  tooth  to  whet 
On  grass  and  leaves.     But  he  began  to  grow 
Greedier,  greater,  and  resolv'd  to  know 


The  taste  of  stronger  food  than  such  light 

fare. 

To  feed  on  human  flesh  he  did  not  dare, 
Till  many  a  meaner  meal  had  slowly  given 
The  young  destroyer  strength  to  vanquish 

even 

His  restless  rival  in  destruction,  Man. 
Meanwhile,  on  lesser  victims  he  began 
To  test  his  power  ;  and  in  a  cold  spring 

night 
Two  weanling  lambs  first  perish'd  from  his 

bite. 

The  bleatings  of  their  dam  at  break  of  day 
Drew  to  the  spot  where   her  dead   lamb- 
kins lay 

The  other  beasts.    They,  understanding  not, 
In  wistful  silence  round  that  fatal  spot 
Stood   eyeing   the  dead  lambs  with  looks 
forlorn. 

Adam,  who  was  upon  the  march  that  morn, 
Missing  his  bodyguard,  turn'd  back  to  see 
What  they  were  doing  ;  and  there  also  he 
Saw  the  two  frozen  lambkins  lying  dead, 
But  understood  not.     At  the  last  he  said, 
"  Since  the  lambs  cannot  move,  methinks 

't  were  best 
That  I  should  carry  them." 

So  on  his  breast 

He  laid  their  little  bodies,  and  again 
Set  forward,  follow'd  o'er  the  frosty  plain 
By  his  bewilder'd  flocks.     And  in  dismay 
They  held  their  peace.     That  was  a  silent 

day. 
At  night  he  laid  the  dead  lambs  on  the 

grass. 

That  night  still  colder  than  the  other  was, 
And  when  the  morning  broke  there  were 

two  more 

Dead  lambs  to  carry.  Adam  took  the  four, 
And  in  his  arms  he  bore  them,  no  great  way, 
Till  eventide.  That  was  a  sorrowful  day. 

But,  ere  the  next,  two  other  lambkins  died- 
Frost-bitten  in  the  dark.  Then  Adam  tried 
To  carry  them,  all  six.  But  the  poor  sheep 
Said,  "  Nay,  we  thank  thee,  Adam.  Let 

them  sleep  ! 

Thou  canst  not  carry  them.  'T  is  all  in  vain. 
We  fear  our  lambkins  will  not  wake  again. 
And,  if  they  wake,  they  could  not  walk  — 

for  see, 
Their  little  legs  are  stiffen'd.     Let  them 

be!" 


3*4 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


So  Adam   left    the  lambs.      And  all    the 

herd 

Follow'd  him  sorrowing,  and  not  a  word 
Was  spoken.  Never  until  then  had  they 
Their  own  forsaken.  That  was  the  worst 

day. 

Eve  said  to  Adam,  as  they  went  along, 
"  Adam,   last   night   the    cold   was    bitter 

strong. 

Warm  fleeces  to  keep  out  the  freezing  wind 
Have   those   six  lambkins   thou   hast   left 

behind  ; 

But  they  will  never  need  them  any  more. 
Go,  fetch  them  here  !  and  I  will  make,  be- 
fore 
This  day  be  done,  stout  garments  for  us 

both, 
Lest  we,  too,  wake  no  more."     Said  Adam, 

loth 

To  do  her  bidding,  "Why  dost  thou  sup- 
pose 
Our  lambs  will   nevermore   have  need  of 

those 
Warm  fleeces  ?     They  are  sleeping."     But 

Eve  said, 
"  They  are  not  sleeping,  Adam.     They  are 

dead." 
"  Dead  ?     What  is  that  ? "     "I  know  not. 

But  I  know 
That  they  no  more  can  feel  the  north  wind 

blow, 
Nor  the  sun  burn.     They  cannot  hear  the 

bleat 

Of  their  own  mothers,  cannot  suffer  heat 
Or  cold,  or  thirst  or  hunger,  weariness 
Or  want,  again."     "  How  dost  thou  know 

all  this  ?  " 
Ask'd  Adam.     And  Eve  whisper'd  in  his 

ear, 
«  The  Serpent  told  me."     "  Is  the  Serpent 

here  ? 

If  here  he  be,  why  hath  he,"  Adam  cried, 
"  No  good  gift  brought   me  ?  "      Adam's 

wife  replied, 

"  The  best  of  gifts,  if  rightly  understood, 
He  brings  thee,  and  that  gift  is  counsel 

good. 


The  Serpent  is  a  prudent  beast  ;  and  right ! 
For  we  were  miserably  cold  last  night, 
And  may  to-night  be  colder  ;  and  hard  by 
Those  dead   lambs  in   their  woolly  fleeces 

lie, 

Yet  need  them  not  as  we  do.  They  are  dead. 
Go  fetch  them  hither  !  " 

Adam  shook  his  headf 
But  went. 

Next  morning,  to  the  beasts'  surprise, 
Adam  and  Eve  appear'd  before  their  eyes 
In  woollen  fleeces  warmly  garmented. 
And  all  the  beasts  to  one  another  said, 
"  How  wonderful  is  Man,   who  can  make 

wool 

As  good  as  sheep's  wool,  and  more  beauti- 
ful ! " 

Only  the  Fox,  who  sniff 'd  and  grinn'd,  had 

guess'd 
Man's  unacknowledged  theft  :  and  to  the 

rest 
He  sneer' d,  "  How  wonderful  is  Woman's 

whim  ! 
See,  Adam's  wife  hath  made   a  sheep  of 

him ! " 


*  f      THE   UTMOST 

SOME   clerks   aver  that   as   the  tree  doth 

fall 

Even  forever  so  that  tree  shall  lie, 
And  that  Death's  act  doth  make  perpetual 
The  last  state  of  the  souls  of  men  that  die. 
If  this  be  so,  —  if  this,  indeed,  were  sure, 
Then  .not  a  moment  longer  would  I  live  ; 
Who,  being  now  as  I  would  fain  endure, 
If  man's  last  state  doth  his  last  hour  sur- 
vive, 

Should  be  among  the  blessed  souls  ?  I  fear 
Life's  many  changes,  not  Death's  change- 

lessness. 

So  perfect  is  this  moment's  passing  cheer, 
I  needs  must  tremble  lest  it  pass  to  less. 
Thus  but  in  fickle  love  of  life  I  live, 
Lest  fickle  life  me  of  my  love  deprive. 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


385 


MELENCOLIA 

FROM  "  THE  CITY   OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT  " 

ANEAR  the  centre  of  that  northern  crest 
Stands   out   a  level    upland    bleak  and 

bare, 
From  which  the  city  east  and  south  and 

west 
Sinks  gently  in  long  waves  ;  and  throned 

there 

An  Image  sits,  stupendous,  superhuman, 
The  bronze  colossus  of  a  winged  Woman, 
Upon  a  graded  granite  base  foursquare. 

Low-seated  she  leans  forward  massively, 
With   cheek  on  clench'd  left   hand,  the 

forearm's  might 
Erect,  its  elbow  on  her  rounded  knee  ; 

Across  a  clasp'd  book  in  her  lap  the  right 
Upholds  a  pair  of  compasses  ;  she  gazes 
With  full  set  eyes,  but  wandering  in  thick 

mazes 

Of  sombre  thought  beholds  no  outward 
sight. 

Words   cannot  picture   her  ;  but  <all  men 

know 
That  solemn  sketch  the  pure  sad  artist 

wrought 

Three  centuries  and  three  score  years  ago, 
With  fantasies  of  his  peculiar  thought : 
The  instruments  of  carpentry  and  science 
Scatter'd  about  her  feet,  in  strange  alliance 
With  the  keen  wolf-hound  sleeping  un- 
distraught  ; 

Scales,  hour-glass,  bell,  and  magic-square 

above  ; 

The  grave  and  solid  infant  perch'd  be- 
side, 
With  open  winglets  that  might  bear  a  dove, 

Intent  upon  its  tablets,  heavy-eyed  ; 
Her  folded  wings  as  of  a  mighty  eagle 
But  all  too  impotent  to  lift  the  regal 

Robustness  of  her   earth-born  strength 
and  pride  ; 

And   with    those    wings,   and    that    light 

wreath  which  seems 

To  mock  her  grand  head  and  the  knotted 
frown 


Of  forehead  charged  with  baleful  thoughts 

and  dreams, 

The  household  bunch  of  keys,  the  house- 
wife's gown 

Voluminous,  indented,  and  yet  rigid 
As  if  a  shell  of  burnish'd  metal  frigid, 
The  feet  thick-shod  to  tread  all  weak- 
ness down  ; 

The  comet  hanging  o'er  the  waste  dark  seas, 

The  massy  rainbow  curv'd  in  front  of  it 
Beyond  the   village   with   the   masts   and 

trees  ; 
The  snaky  imp,  dog-headed,   from   the 

Pit, 

Bearing  upon  its  batlike  leathern  pinions 
Her  name  unfolded  in  the  sun's  dominions, 
The  "  MELENCOLIA  "  that  transcends 
all  wit. 

Thus  has  the  artist  copied  her,  and  thus 
Surrounded  to  expound  her  form  sublime, 

Her  fate  heroic  and  calamitous  ; 

Fronting  the  dreadful  mysteries  of  Time, 

Unvanquish'd  in  defeat  and  desolation, 

Undaunted  in  the  hopeless  conflagration 
Of  the  day  setting  on  her  baffled  prime. 

Baffled  and  beaten  back  she  works  on  still, 
Weary  and  sick  of  soul  she  works  the 

more, 
Sustain'd  by  her  indomitable  will  : 

The  hands  shall  fashion  and  the  brain 

shall  pore, 
And   all    her   sorrow   shall    be   turu'd   to 

labor, 
Till  Death  the  friend-foe  piercing  with  his 

sabre 

That  mighty  heart  of  hearts  ends  bitter 
war. 

But   as  if  blacker   night   could   dawn   on 

night, 
With  tenfold  gloom  on  moonless  night 

unstarr'd, 

A  sense  more  tragic  than  defeat  and  blight, 
More  desperate    than   strife   with  hope 

debarr'd, 

More  fatal  than  the  adamantine  Never 
Encompassing  her  passionate  endeavor, 
Dawns     glooming     in     her     tenebrous 
regard  : 


386 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


The  sense  that  every  struggle  brings  de- 
feat 
Because  Fate  holds  no  prize  to  crown 

success  ; 

That  all  the  oracles  are  dumb  or  cheat 
Because    they  have    no    secret    to    ex- 
press ; 
That  none  can  pierce  the  vast  black  veil 

uncertain 

Because  there  is  no  light  beyond  the  cur- 
tain ; 
That  all  is  vanity  and  nothingness. 

Titanic  from  her  high  throne  in  the  north, 
That  City's  sombre  Patroness  and  Queen, 

In  bronze  sublimity  she  gazes  forth 
Over  her  Capital  of  teen  and  threne, 

Over  the  river  with  its  isles  and  bridges, 

The  marsh  and  moorland,  to  the  stern  rock- 
ridges, 
Confronting  them  with  a  coeval  mien. 

The  moving  moon  and  stars  from  east  to 

west 

Circle  before  her  in  the  sea  of  air  ; 
Shadows  and  gleams  glide  round  her  sol- 
emn rest. 

Her  subjects  often  gaze  up  to  her  there  : 
The  strong  to  drink  new  strength  of  iron 

endurance, 

The  weak  new  terrors  ;  all,  renew'd  assur- 
ance 
And  confirmation  of  the  old  despair. 


LIFE'S   HEBE 

IN  the  early  morning-shine 
Of  a  certain  day  divine, 
I  beheld  a  Maiden  stand 
With  a  pitcher  in  her  hand  ; 
Whence  she  pour'd  into  a  cup, 
Until  it  was  half  fill'd  up, 
Nectar  that  was  golden  light 
In  the  cup  of  crystal  bright. 

And  the  first  who  took  the  cup 
With  pure  water  fill'd  it  up  ; 
As  he  drank  then,  it  was  more 
Ruddy  golden  than  before  : 
And  he  leap'd  and  danced  and  sang 
As  to  Bacchic  cymbals'  clang. 

But  the  next  who  took  the  cup 
With  the  red  wine  fill'd  it  up  ; 


What  he  drank  then  was  in  hue 
Of  a  heavy  sombre  blue  : 
First  he  reel'd  and  then  he  crept, 
Then  lay  faint  but  never  slept. 

And  the  next  who  took  the  cup 
With  the  white  milk  fill'd  it  up  ; 
What  he  drank  at  first  seem'd  blood, 
Then  turn'd  thick  and  brown  as  mud  : 
And  he  mov'd  away  as  slow 
As  a  weary  ox  may  go. 

But  the  next  who  took  the  cup 
With  sweet  honey  fill'd  it  up  ; 
Nathless  that  which  he  did  drink 
Was  thin  fluid  black  as  ink  : 
As  he  went  he  stumbled  soon, 
And  lay  still  in  deathlike  swoon. 

She  the  while  without  a  word 
Unto  all  the  cup  preferr'd  ; 
Blandly  smil'd  and  sweetly  laugh'd 
As  each  mingled  his  own  draught. 

And  the  next  who  took  the  cup 
To  the  sunshine  held  it  up, 
Gave  it  back  and  did  not  taste  ; 
It  was  empty  when  replaced  : 
First  he  bow'd  a  reverent  bow, 
Then  &e  kiss'd  her  on  the  brow. 

But  the  next  who  took  the  cup 
Without  mixture  drank  it  up  ; 
When  she  took  it  back  from  him 
It  was  full  unto  the  brim  : 
He  with  a  right  bold  embrace 
Kiss'd  her  sweet  lips  face  to  face. 

Then  she  sang  with  blithest  cheer  : 

Who  has  thirst,  come  here,  come  here  ! 

Nectar  that  is  golden  light 

In  the  cup  of  crystal  bright, 

Nectar  that  is  sunny  fire 

Warm  as  warmest  heart's  desire  : 

Pitcher  never  lacketh  more, 

Arm  is  never  tir'd  to  pour  : 

Honey,  water,  milk,  or  wine 

Mingle  with  the  draught  divine, 

Drink  it  pure,  or  drink  it  not  ; 

Each  is  free  to  choose  his  lot  ; 

Am  I  old  ?   or  am  I  cold  ? 

Only  two  have  kiss'd  me  bold  ! 

She  was  young  and  fair  and  gay 
As  that  young  and  glorious  day. 


JAMES  THOMSON 


387 


FROM    "HE    HEARD  HER    SING" 

AND  thus  all-expectant  abiding  I  waited  not 

long,  for  soon 
A  boat  came  gliding  and  gliding  out  in  the 

light  of  the  moon, 
Gliding  with  muffled   oars,  slowly,  a  thin 

dark  line, 
Round  from  the  shadowing  shores  into  the 

silver  shine 
Of    the   clear   moon   westering   now,   and 

still  drew  on  and  on, 
While  the  water  before  its  prow  breaking 

and  glistering  shone, 
Slowly  in  silence  strange  ;  and  the  rower 

row'd  till  it  lay 
Afloat  within  easy  range  deep  in  the  curve 

of  the  bay  ; 

And  besides  the  rower  were  two  :  a  Wo- 
man, who  sat  in  the  stern, 
And  Her  by  her  fame  I  knew,  one  of  those 

fames  that  burn, 
Startling  and  kindling  the  world,  one  whose 

likeness  we  everywhere  see  ; 
And  a  man  reclining  half-curl'd  with  an  in- 
dolent grace  at  her  knee, 
The   Signor,  lord  of   her  choice  ;  and  he 

lightly  touch'd  a  guitar  ;  — 
A  guitar  for  that  glorious  voice  !    Illumine 

the  sun  with  a  star  ! 
She  sat  superb  and  erect,  stately,  all-happy, 

serene, 
Her  right  hand  toying  uncheck'd  with  the 

hair  of  that  page  of  a  Queen  ; 
With  her  head  and  her  throat  and  her  bust 

like  the  bust  and  the  throat  and  the 

head 
Of  Her  who  has  long  been  dust,  of  her  who 

shall  never  be  dead, 
Preserv'd  by  the  potent  art  made   trebly 

potent  by  love, 
While  the  transient  ages  depart  from  under 

the  heavens  above,  — 

Preserv'd  in  the  color  and  line  on  the  can- 
vas fulgently  flung 
By  Him  the  Artist  divine  who  triumph'd 

and  vanish'd  so  young  : 
Surely  there  rarely  hath  been  a  lot  more  to 

be  envied  in  life 
Than  thy  lot,  O  Fornarina,  whom  Raphael's 

heart  took  to  wife. 

There  was  silence  yet  for  a  time  save  the 
tinkling  capricious  and  quaint, 

Then  She  lifted  her  voice  sublime,  no 
longer  tender  and  faint, 


Pathetic  and  tremulous,  no  !  but  firm  as  a 

column  it  rose, 
Rising  solemn  and  slow   with  a  full  rich 

swell  to  the  close, 
Firm   as   a   marble   column   soaring   with 

noble  pride 
In  a  triumph  of  rapture  solemn   to  some 

Hero  deified  ; 
In  a  rapture  of  exultation  made  calm  by  its 

stress  intense, 

In  a  triumph  of  consecration  and  a  jubila- 
tion immense. 
And  the  Voice  flow'd  on  and  on,  and  ever 

it  swell'd  as  it  pour'd, 
Till  the  stars  that  throbb'd  as  they  shone 

seem'd    throbbing   with    it    in    ac- 
cord ; 
Till  the  moon  herself  in  my  dream,  still 

Empress  of  all  the  night, 
Was  only  that  voice  supreme  translated  into 

pure  light  : 
And  I  lost  all  sense  of  the  earth  though  I 

still  had  sense  of  the  sea  ; 
And  I  saw  the  stupendous  girth  of  a  tree 

like  the  Norse  World-Tree  ; 
And  its  branches  fill'd  all  the  sky,  and  the 

deep  sea  water'd  its  root, 
And  the  clouds  were  its  leaves  on  high  and 

the  stars  were  its  silver  fruit  ; 
Yet  the  stars  were  the  notes  of  the  singing 

and  the  moon  was  the  voice  of  the 

song, 

Through  the  vault  of  the  firmament  ring- 
ing and  swelling  resistlessly  strong  ; 
And  the  whole  vast  night  was  a  shell  for 

that  music  of  manifold  might, 
And  was  strain'd  by  the  stress  of  the  swell 

of  the  music  yet  vaster  than  night. 
And  I  saw  as  a  crystal  fountain  whose  shaft 

was  a  column  of  light 
More  high  than  the  loftiest  mountain  ascend 

the  abyss  of  the  night  ; 
And  its  spray  fill'd  all  the  sky,  and   the 

clouds  were  the  clouds  of  its  spray, 
Which  glitter'd  in  star-points  on  high  and 

fill'd  with  pure  silver  the  bay  ; 
And  ever  in  rising  and  falling  it  sang  as  it 

rose  and  it  fell, 
And  the  heavens   with   their   pure   azure 

walling  all  puls'd  with  the  pulse  of 

its  swell, 
For  the  stars  were  the  notes  of  the  singing 

and  the  moon  was  the  voice  of  the 

song 
Through  the  vault  of  the  firmament  ringing 

and  swelling  ineffably  strong  ; 


388 


VARIOUS   DISTINCTIVE  POETS 


And  the  whole  vast  night  was  a  shell  for 
that  music  of  manifold  might, 

And  was  strain'd  by  the  stress  of  the 
swell  of  the  music  yet  vaster  than 
uight : 

And  the  fountain  in  swelling  and  soaring 
and  filling  beneath  and  above, 

Grew  flush'd  with  red  fire  in  outpour- 
ing, transmuting  great  power  into 
love, 

Great  power  with  a  greater  love  flush- 
ing, immense  and  intense  and  su- 
preme, 

As  if  all  the  World's  heart-blood  outgush- 
ing  ensanguin'd  the  trance  of  my 
dream  ; 


And  the  waves  of  its  blood  seein'd  to  dash 

on  the  shore  of  the  sky  to  the  cope 
With  the  stress  of  the  fire  of  a  passion  and 

yearning  of  limitless  scope, 
Vast  fire  of  a  passion  and  yearning,  keen 

torture  of  rapture  intense, 
A  most  unendurable  burning  consuming  the 

soul  with  the  sense  :  — 
"  Love,    love    only,  forever   love  with  its 

torture  of  bliss  ; 
All  the  world's  glories  can  never  equal  two 

souls  in  one  kiss  : 
Love,  and  ever  love  wholly  ;  love  in    all 

time  and  all  space  ; 
Life  is  consummate  then  solely  in  the  death 

of  a  burning  embrace.  " 


Harriet  €Ieanor  Hamilton  M 


PALERMO 

FROM  "THE  DISCIPLES" 

Whosoe'er 

Had  look'd  upon  the  glory  of  that  day 
In  Sicily  beneath  the  summer  sun, 
Would  not  have  dream'd  that  Death  was 

reigning  there 

In  shape  so  terrible  ;  —  for  all  the  road 
Was  like  an  avenue  of  Paradise, 
Life,  and  full  flame  of  loveliness  of  life. 
The  red  geraniums  blaz'd  in  banks  breast- 
high, 

And  from  the  open  doors  in  the  white  walls 
Scents  of  magnolia  and  of  heliotrope 
Came  to  the  street  ;  filmy  aurora-flowers 
Open'd  and  died  in  the  hour,  and  fell  away 
In  many-color'd  showers  upon  the  ground  ; 
Nebulous  masses  of  the  pale  blue  stars 
Made  light  upon  the  darkness  of  the  green, 
Through    openings  in   the    thickets    over- 
arch'd  ; 

Where  roses,  white  and  yellow  and  full- 
rose, 
Weigh'd    down    their    branches,    till    the 

ground  was  swept 

By  roses,  and  strewn  with  them,  as  the  air 
Shook  the  thick  clusters,  and  the    Indian 

reeds 
Bow'd   to  its  passing  with  their  feathery 

heads  ; 

And   trumpet-blossoms    push'd   out   great 
white  horns 


From  the  green  sheath,  till  all  the  green 

was  hid 

By  the  white  spread  of  giant-blowing  wings. 
In  the  cool  shadow  heaps  of  tuberose 
Lay  by  the  fountains  in  the  market-place, 
Among  the  purple  fruit.     The  jalousies 
Of  the  tall  houses  shut  against  the  sun 
Were  wreath'd  with  trails  of  velvet-glossy 

bells  : 
And  here  and  there  one  had  not  been  un- 

clos'd 

Yesterday,  and  the  vivid  shoots  had  run 
Over  it  in  a  uight,  and  seal'd  it  fast 
With  tendril,  and  bright  leaf,  and  drops  of 

flower. 

And  in  and  out  the  balconies  thin  stems 
Went  twisting,  and  the  chains  of  passion- 
flowers, 

Bud,  blossom,  and  phantasmal  orb  of  fruit 
Alternate,  swung,  and  lengtheu'd  every 

hour. 
And  fine-leav'd  greenery  crept  from  bower 

to  bower 
With  thick  white  star-flakes  scatter'd  ;  and 

the  bloom 

Of  orient  lilies,  and  the  rainbow-blue 
Of  iris  shot  up  stately  from  the  grass  ; 
And  through  the  wavering  shadows  crim- 
son sparks 
Pois'd  upon  brittle  stalks,  glanced  up  and 

down  ; 

And  shining  darkness  of  the  cypress  clos'd 
The  deep  withdrawing  glades  of  evergreen, 
Lit  up  far  off  with  oleander  pyres. 


HARRIET   ELEANOR   HAMILTON   KING 


389 


Out  of  the  rocky  dust  of  the  wayside 
The  lamps  of  the  aloes  burn'd  themselves 

aloft, 

Immortal  ;  and  the  prickly  cactus-knots 
In  the  hot  sunshine  overleant  the  walls, 
The  lizards  darting  in  and  out  of  them  ; 
But  in  the  shadier  side  the  maidenhair 
Sprung  thick  from  every  crevice.     Passing 

these, 

He  issued  on  to  the  Piazza,  where 
The    wonder  of    the  world,  the    Fountain 

streams 
From  height  to  height  of  marble,  dashing 

down 

White  waves  forever  over  whitest  limbs, 
That  shine  in  multitudes  amid  the  spray 
And  sound  of  silver  waters  without  end, 
Rolling   and   rising    and    showering    sud- 
denly. 
There    standing  where    the  fig-trees  made 

a  shade 

Close  in  the  angle,  he  beheld  the  streets 
Stretch    fourways  to   the    beautiful   great 

gates  ; 
With  all  their  burnish'd  domes  and  carven 

stones 
In   wavering   color'd    lines    of    light    and 

shade. 
And  downwards,  from  the  greatest  of  the 

gates, 

Porta  Felice,  swept  the  orange-groves  ; 
And  avenues  of  coral-trees  led  down 
In    all    their     hanging    splendors    to    the 

shore  ; 

And  out  beyond  them,  sleeping  in  the  light, 
The  islands,  and  the  azure  of  the  sea. 
And    upwards,    through     a   labyrinth    of 

spires, 

And  turrets,  and  steep  alabaster  walls, 
The  city  rose,  and  broke  itself  away 
Amidst  the  forests  of  the  hills,  and  reach'd 
The  heights  of  Monreale,  crown'd  with  all 
Its  pinnacles  and  all  its  jewell'd  fronts 
Shining  to  seaward  ;  —  but  the  tolling  bells 
Out    of   the   gilded    minarets   smote    the 

ear  :  — 

Until  at  last,  through  miles  of  shadowy  air, 
The  blue  and    violet  mountains  shut  the 

sky. 


THE   CROCUS 

OUT  of  the  frozen  earth  below, 
Out  of  the  melting  of  the  snow, 

No  flower,  but  a  film,  I  push  to  light  ; 
No  stem,  no  bud,  —  yet  I  have  burst 
The  bars  of  winter,  I  am  the  first, 

0  Sun,  to  greet  thee  out  of  the  night  ! 

Bare  are  the  branches,  cold  is  the  air, 
Yet  it  is  fire  at  the  heart  I  bear, 

1  come,  a  flame  that  is  fed  by  none  : 
The  summer  hath  blossoms  for  her  delight. 
Thick  and  dewy  and  waxen-white, 

Thou  seest  me  golden,  O  golden  Sun  ! 

Deep  in  the  warm  sleep  underground 
Life  is  still,  and  the  peace  profound  : 

Yet  a  beam  that  pierced,  and  a  thrill 

that  smote 

Call'd  me  and  drew  me  from  far  away ;  — 
I  rose,  I  came,  to  the  open  day 

I  have  won,  unshelter'd,  alone,  remote. 

No  bee  strays  out  to  greet  me  at  morn, 
I  shall  die  ere  the  butterfly  is  born, 

I  shall  hear  no  note  of  the  nightingale  ; 
The  swallow  will    come  at  the  break    of 

green, 

He  will  never  know  that  I  have  been 
Before   him  here  when    the   world  was 
pale. 

They  will  follow,  the  rose  with  the  thorny 

stem, 

The  hyacinth  stalk,  —  soft  airs  for  them  ; 
They  shall    have   strength,   I  have  but 

love  : 

They  shall  not  be  tender  as  I,  — 
Yet  I  fought  here  first,  to  bloom,  to  die, 
To  shine  in  his  face  who  shines  above. 

O  Glory  of  heaven,  O  Ruler  of  morn, 

0  Dream  that  shap'd  me,  and  I  was  born 
In    thy  likeness,  starry,  and    flower  of 

flame  ; 

1  lie  on  the  earth,  and  to  thee  look  up, 
Into  thy  image  will  grow  my  cup, 

Till  a  sunbeam  dissolve  it  into  the  same 


39° 


FORD   MADOX   BROWN  —  NOEL   PATON 


POETS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE 


f  orfc 


FOR   THE   PICTURE,  "THE  LAST 
OF   ENGLAND" 

:i  THE  last  of  England  !     O'er  the  sea,  my 

dear, 

Our  homes  to  seek  amid  Australian  fields, 
Us,  not  our  million-acred  island  yields 
The  space  to  dwell  in.    Thrust  out  !  Forced 

to  hear 
Low  ribaldry  from  sots,  and  share  rough 

cheer 
With    rudely-nurtur'd    men.     The     hope 

youth  builds 
Of   fair  renown,  barter'd   for  that  which 

shields 
Only  the  back,  and  half-form'd  lands  that 

rear 
The  dust-storm  blistering  up  the  grasses 

wild. 
There  learning   skills    not,  nor  the  poet's 

dream, 

Nor  aught  so  lov'd  as  children  shall  we  see." 
She  grips  his  listless  hand  and  clasps  her 

child, 
Through  rainbow  tears  she  sees  a  sunnier 

gleam, 
She  cannot  see  a  void,  where  he  will  be. 


proton 


O.  M.  B. 


(DIED  NOVEMBER,  1874) 

As  one  who  strives  from  some  fast  steamer's 

side 

To  note  amid  the  backward-spinning  foam 
And   keep  in  view  some  separate    wreath 

therefrom, 
That  cheats  him  even  the  while  he  views  it 

glide 
(Merging  in  other  foam-tracks  stretching 

wide), 
So  strive  we  to  keep  clear  that  day  our 

home 
First  saw  you  riven  —  a  memory  thence  to 

roam, 

A  shatter'd  blossom  on  the  eternal  tide  ! 
O  broken  promises  that  show'd  so  fair  ! 
O  morning  sun  of  wit  set  in  despair  ! 
O  brows  made  smooth  as  with  the  Muse's 

chrism  ! 

O  Oliver  !  ourselves  Death's  cataclysm 
Must   soon    o'ertake  —  but  not   in  vain  — 

not  where 
Some  vestige  of  your  thought  outspans  the 

abysm  ! 


REQUIEM 

WITHER' D  pansies  feint  and  sweet, 
O'er  his  breast  in  silence  shed, 

Faded  lilies  o'er  his  feet, 

Waning  roses  round  his  head, 

Where  in  dreamless  sleep  he  lies  — 

Folded  palms  and  sealed  eyes  — 

Young  Love,  within  my  bosom  —  dead. 

Young  Love  that  was  so  fond,  so  fair, 

With  his  mouth  of  rosy  red, 
Argent  wing  and  golden  hair, 

And  those  blue  eyen,  glory-fed 


From  some  fount  of  splendor,  far 

Beyond  or  moon  or  sun  or  star  — 

And  can  it  be  that  he  is  dead  ? 

Ay  !  his  breast  is  cold  as  snow  : 
Pulse  and  breath  forever  fled  ; 

If  I  kiss'd  him  ever  so, 

To  my  kiss  he  were  as  lead  ; 

If  I  clipp'd  him  as  of  yore 

He  would  answer  me  no  more 

With  lip  or  hand  —  for  he  is  dead. 

But  breathe  no  futile  sigh  ;  no  tear 
Smirch  his  pure  and  lonely  bed. 


PATON  —  WOOLNER 


391 


Let  no  foolish  cippus  rear 

Its  weight  above  him.     Only  spread 
Rose,  lily,  pale  forget-me-not, 
And  pansies  round  the  silent  spot 

Where  in  his  youth  he  lieth  —  dead. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  EURYDICE 

THE  training-ship  Eurydice  — 

As  tight  a  craft,  I  ween, 
As  ever  bore  brave  men  who  lov'd 

Their  country  and  their  queen  — 
Built  when  a  ship,  sir,  was  a  ship, 

And  not  a  steam-machine. 

Six  months  or  more  she  had  been  out 

Cruising  the  Indian  sea  ; 
And  now,  with  all  her  canvas  bent  — 

A  fresh  breeze  blowing  free  — 
Up  Channel  in  her  pride  she  came, 

The  brave  Eurydice. 

On  Saturday  it  was  we  saw 

The  English  cliffs  appear, 
And  fore  and  aft,  from  man  and  boy, 

Uprang  one  mighty  cheer  ; 
While  many  a  rough-and-ready  hand 

Dash'd  off  the  gathering  tear. 

We  saw  the  heads  of  Dorset  rise 

Fair  in  the  Sabbath  sun  ; 
We  mark'd  each  hamlet  gleaming  white, 

The  church  spires,  one  by  one  ; 
We  thought  we  heard  the  church  bells  ring 

To  hail  our  voyage  done. 


"  Only  an  hour  from  Spithead,  lads  : 

Only  an  hour  from  home  !  " 
So  sang  the  captain's  cheery  voice 

As  we  spurn'd  the  ebbing  foam  ; 
And    each    young    sea-dog's    heart    sang 
back 

"Only  an  hour  from  home  !  " 

No  warning  ripple  crisp'd  the  wave 

To  tell  of  danger  nigh  ; 
Nor  looming  rack,  nor  driving  scud  — 

From  out  a  smiling  sky, 
With  sound  as  of  the  trump  of  doom. 

The  squall  broke  suddenly. 

A  hurricane  of  wind  and  snow 

From  off  the  Shanklin  shore  ; 
It  caught  us  in  its  blinding  whirl 

One  instant,  and  no  more  ; 
For,  ere  we  dream'd  of  trouble  near, 

All  earthly  hope  was  o'er. 

No  time  to  shorten  sail,  —  no  time 
To  change  the  vessel's  course  ; 

The  storm  had  caught  her  crowded  masts 
With  swift,  resistless  force. 

Only  one  shrill,  despairing  cry 
Rose  o'er  the  tumult  hoarse. 

And  broadside  the  great  ship  went  down, 

Amid  the  swirling  foam  ; 
And  with  her  nigh  four  hundred  men 

Went  down,  in  sight  of  home, 
(Fletcher  and  1  alone  were  sav'd) 

Only  an  hour  from  home  ! 


MY   BEAUTIFUL   LADY 

I  LOVE  my  Lady  ;  she  is  very  fair  ; 

Her  brow  is  wan,  and  bound  by  simple  hair  ; 
Her  spirit  sits  aloof,  and  high, 
But  glances  from  her  tender  eye 
In  sweetness  droopingly. 

As  a  young  forest  while  the  wind  drives 

through, 
My  life  is  stirr'd  when  she  breaks  on  my 

view  ; 

Her  beauty  grants  my  will  no  choice 
But  silent  awe,  till  she  rejoice 
My  longing  with  her  voice. 


Her  warbling  voice,  though  ever  low  and 

mild, 
Oft  makes  me  feel  as  strong  wine  would  a 

child  ; 

And  though  her  hand  be  airy  light 
Of  touch,  it  moves  me  with  its  might, 
As  would  a  sudden  fright. 

A  hawk  high  pois'd   in  air,  whose  nerv'd 

wing-tips  • 

Tremble  with  might  suppress'd,  before  he 

dips, 

In  vigilance,  scarce  more  intense 
Than  I,  when  her  voice  holds  my  sense 
Contented  in  suspense. 


392 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Her  mention  of  a  tiling,  august  or  poor, 
Makes  it  far  nobler  than  it  was  before  : 
As  where  the  sun  strikes  life  will  gush, 
And  what  is  pale  receive  a  flush, 
Rich  hues,  a  richer  blush. 

My  Lady's  name,  when  I   hear  strangers 

use, 

Not  meaning  her,  to  me  sounds  lax  mis- 
use ; 

I  love  none  but  my  Lady's  name  ; 
Maud,    Grace,    Rose,    Marian,    all    the 

same, 
Are  harsh,  or  blank  and  tame. 

My  Lady  walks  as  I  have  watch'd  a  swan 
Swim  where  a  glory  on  the  water  shone  : 

There  ends  of  willow  branches  ride, 

Quivering  in  the  flowing  tide, 
By  the  deep  river's  side. 

Fresh  beauties,  howsoe'er  she   moves,  are 

stirr'd  : 

As  the  sunn'd  bosom  of  a  humming  bird 
At  each  pant  lifts  some  fiery  hue, 
Fierce  gold,  bewildering  green  or  blue  ; 
The  same,  yet  ever  new. 


GIVEN    OVER 

THE  men  of  learning  say  she  must 
Soon  pass,  and  be  as  if  she  had  not  been. 

To  gratify  the  barren  lust 
Of    Death,   the   roses   in   her   cheeks   are 

seen 

To  blush  so    brightly,    blooming  deeper 
damascene. 


All  hope  and  doubt,  all  fears,  are  vain  : 
The  dreams  I  nurs'd  of  honoring  her  are 

past, 

And  will  not  comfort  me  again. 
I  see  a  lurid  sunlight  throw  its  last 
Wild  gleam  athwart  the  land  whose  shad- 
ows lengthen  fast. 

It  does  not  seem  so  dreadful  now, 
The  horror  stands   out  naked,  stark,  and 

still  ; 

I  am  quite  calm,  and  wonder  how 
My  terror  play'd  such  mad  pranks  with  my 

will. 

The  north  winds  fiercely  blow,  I  do  not  feel 
them  chill. 

All  things  must  die  :  somewhere  I  read 
What  wise  and  solemn  men  pronounce  of 

j°y; 

No  sooner  born,  they  say,  than  dead  ; 
The  strife  of  being,  but  a  whirling  toy 
Humming  a  weary  moan  spun  by  capricious 
boy. 

Has  my  soul  reach 'd  a  starry  height 
Majestically  calm  ?     No  monster,  drear 

And  shapeless,  glares  me  faint  at  night  ; 
I  am  not  in  the  sunshine  check'd  for  fear 
That  monstrous,  shapeless  thing   is  some- 
where crouching  near  ? 

No  ;  woe  is  me  !  far  otherwise  : 
The  naked  horror  numbs  me  to  the  bone  ; 

In  stupor  calm  its  cold,  blank  eyes 
Set  hard  at  mine.     I  do  not  fall  or  groan, 
Our  island  Gorgon's  face  has  changed  me 
into  stone. 


SDante 


THE   BLESSED   DAMOZEL* 

THE  blessed  damozel  lean'd  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  still'd  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

i  Written  in  his 


But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseem'd  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 
One  of  God's  choristers  ; 

The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 
From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 

Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 
19th  year,  1846-47. 


DANTE  GABRIEL   ROSSETTI 


393 


(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  lean'd  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .    '. 
Nothing  :  the  autumn-fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  : 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remember'd  names ; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bow'd  herself  and  stoop'd 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  lean'd  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fix'd  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.  Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curl'd  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf  ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !   Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearken'd  ?     When  those  bells 

Possess'd  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 


"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  pray 'd  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings. 

And  he  is  cloth'd  in  white, 
I  '11  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light  ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirr'd  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God  ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

"And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hush'd  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas  !  we  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?) 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 


394 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb  : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abash'd  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnuniber'd  heads 
Bow'd  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

«  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  :  — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  —  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  forever  now 
Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listeu'd  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 

"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceas'd. 
The  light  thrill'd  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight: 
Her  eyes  pray'd,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


THE   PORTRAIT 

THIS  is  her  picture  as  she  was  :        * 

It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 
As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 

Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 
I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir,  — 
Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That   now,   even    now,   the    sweet    lips 
part 

To    breathe    the    words    of    the    sweet 

heart : 
And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Alas  !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That    makes    the   prison  -  depths    more 
rude,  — 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 


Yet  only  this,  of  love's  whole  prize 
Remains  ;  save  what,  in  mournful  guise, 
Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone,  — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 
Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  I  shrin'd  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all  ;  a  covert  place 

Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 
Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 

And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 

A  deep,  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day  :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands, 

And  such  the  pure  line's  gracious  flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

'T  is  she  :  though  of  herself,  alas  ! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  grass, 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she, 

One  with  the  other  all  alone  ; 
And  we  were  blithe  ;  yet  memory 

Saddens  those  hours,  as  when  the  moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stoop'd  to  drink  the  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang  : 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang,  — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But  when  that  hour  my  soul  won  strength 
For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and  kills, 

Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 
Thunder'd  the  heat  within  the  hills. 

That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 

Beside  the  pelted  window-pane  ; 

And  there  she  hearken'd  what  I  said, 
With  under-glances  that  survey'd 

The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things, 
Like  leaves  through  which  abird  hasflown, 

Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings  ; 
Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 

And  paint  this"  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 

Of  talk  and  sweet,  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 
At  windows  of  a  summer  room, 

To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


395 


And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 
And  all  around  was  fragrant  air, 

In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 

It   seemed   each    sun  -  thrill'd    blossom 
there 

Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 

O  heart,  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 
In  that  one  darkness  lying  still, 
What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will, 

Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves  ? 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those   days  —  nought    left    to    see    or 

hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time   these  things  reach  mine 

ear  ; 

When  the  leaf-shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath, 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide, 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  death. 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept, 
And  yet  delay'd  my  sleep  till  dawn, 

Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept : 
For  unawares  I  came  upon 

Those  glades  where  once  she  walk'd  with 
me  : 

And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly, 
All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 
Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 

Yearn 'd  loud  the  iron-bosom' d  sea. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and 
hears 

The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast,  — 
Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 

All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest,  — 
How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  aw'd, 
When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 

Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns, 

It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 
And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God  ! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it, 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer  : 

While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side, 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 

About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


FROM    "THE     HOUSE     OF    LIFE: 
A    SONNET-SEQUENCE" 

INTRODUCTORY 

A  SONNET  is  a  moment's  monument,  — 

Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity 

To  one  dead,  deathless  hour.     Look  that  it 

be, 

Whether  for  lustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fulness  reverent  : 
Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 
As  Day  or  Night  may  rule  ;  and  let  Time 

see 

Its  flowering  crest  impearl'd  and  orient. 
A  Sonnet  is  a  coin  :  its  face  reveals 
The  soul,  —  its  converse,  to  what  power  't  is 

due  :  — 

Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  ap- 
peals 

Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's  high  retinue, 
It  serve  ;  or,  'mid  the  dark  wharf's  caver- 
nous breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 

LOVESIGHT 

WHEN  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 
The   worship  of   that   Love  through  thee 

made  known  ? 

Or  when,  in  the  dusk  hours  (we  two  alone), 
Close-kiss'd,  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies, 
And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 
O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth   the  shadow  of 

thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring,  — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darken- 
ing slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perish'd  leaves  of 

Hope, 
The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ? 

HER   GIFTS 

HIGH  grace,  the  dower  of  queens  ;  and 
therewithal 

Some  wood-born  wonder's  sweet  simpli- 
city ; 

A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the  sky 

Or  hyacinth-light  where  forest-shadows 
fall; 


396 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth  in- 

thrall 
The    heart  ;    a  mouth   whose    passionate 

forms  imply 

All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby  ; 
Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal  ; 
A    round    rear'd    neck,  meet    column    of 

Love's  shrine 

To  cling  to  when  the  heart  takes  sanctuary ; 
Hands  which  forever  at  Love's  bidding  be, 
And  soft-stirr'd  feet  still  answering  to  his 

sign  :  — 
These   are  her  gifts,  as  tongue  may  tell 

them  o'er. 
Breathe  low  her  name,  my  soul  ;  for  that 

means  more. 

THE   DARK   GLASS 

NOT  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 
How  should  I  reach   so  far,  who  cannot 

weigh 

To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  ? 
Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names 

that  be 
As  doors  and  windows  bar'd  to  some  loud 

sea, 
Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with 

spray  ; 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love,  —  the  last 

relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity  ? 
Lo  !  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all  ? 
One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the 

sand, — 

One  little  heart-flame  shelter'd  in  his  hand. 
Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clear- 
est call 

And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand. 

WITHOUT    HER 

WHAT  of   her  glass  without   her  ?     The 

blank  gray 
There  where  the  pool  is  blind  of  the  moon's 

face. 
Her  dress  without  her  ?    The  toss'd  empty 

space 
Of  cloud-rack  whence  the  moon  has  pass'd 

away. 
Her  paths  without  her  ?     Day's  appointed 

sway 
Usurp'd  by  desolate  night.     Her  pillow'd 

place 


Without  her  ?     Tears,  ah  me  !  for  love's 

good  grace, 

And  cold  forgetfulness  of  night  or  day. 
What   of   the  heart  without  her  ?      Nay, 

poor  heart, 
Of  thee  what  word  remains  ere  speech  be 

still  ? 

A  wayfarer  by  barren  ways  and  chill, 
Steep  ways  and  weary,  without   her  thou 

art, 
Where   the   long   cloud,  the   long   wood's 

counterpart, 
Sheds   doubled  darkness  up   the  laboring 

hill. 

BROKEN   MUSIC 

THE  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she 

hears 

Her  nursling's   speech   first   grow   articu- 
late ; 

But  breathless,  with  averted  eyes  elate 
She  sits,  with  open  lips  and  open  ears, 
That  it  may  call  her  twice.  'Mid  doubts 

and  fears 
Thus  oft  my  soul  has  hearken'd  ;  till  the 

song, 
A  central  moan  for  days,  at  length  found 

tongue, 
And  the  sweet  music  well'd  and  the  sweet 

tears. 

But  now,  whatever  while  the  soul  is  fain 
To  list  that  wonted  murmur,  as  it  were 
The   speech-bound  sea-shell's  low,  impor- 
tunate strain, — 
No   breath   of   song,   thy   voice    alone    is 

there, 

O  bitterly  belov'd  !  and  all  her  gain 
Is  but  the  pang  of  unpermitted  prayer. 

INCLUSIVENESS 

THE  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different 

mood, 

Sit  at  the  roadside  table,  and  arise  : 
And  every  life  among  them  in  like  wise 
Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 
What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to 

brood 
How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it 

lies  ?  — 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kiss'd  his 

eyes, 
Of  what  her  kiss   was  when    his   father 

woo'd  ? 


DANTE  GABRIEL   ROSSETTI 


397 


May  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sitt'st  in 

dwell 

In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 
Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life 

spent  well  ; 

And  may  be  stamp'd,  a  memory  all  in  vain, 
Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 

A   SUPERSCRIPTION 

LOOK  in  my  face  ;  my  name  is  Might-have- 
been  ; 

I  am  also  call'd  No-more,  Too-late,  Fare- 
well ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's    foam-fretted    feet  be- 
tween ; 

Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 
Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by 

my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of    ultimate    things    unutter'd    the    frail 

screen. 
Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !  But  should  there 

dart 

One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  sur- 
prise 
Of  that  wing'd  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath 

of  sighs,  — 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


SONNETS   ON    PICTURES 

A   VENETIAN   PASTORAL 
BY  GIORGIONE 

(In  the  Louvre)  4 

WATER,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice  :  —  nay, 
But  dip  the  vessel  slowly,  —  nay,  but  lean 
And  hark  how  at  its  verge  the  wave  sighs 

in 

Reluctant.     Hush  !  beyond  all  depth  away 
The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day  : 
Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to 

sing, 
Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.     Whither 

stray 

1  In  the  drawing  Mary  has  left  a  procession  of  revellers, 
house  where  she  sees  Christ.     Her  lover  has  followed  her, 


Her  eyes  now,  from  whose  mouth  the  slim 

pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadow'd 

grass 

Is  cool  against  her  naked  side  ?    Let  be  :  — 
Say  nothing  now  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 
Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was,  — 
Life  touching  lips  with  Immortality. 


MARY   MAGDALENE 
AT   THE   DOOR   OF   SIMON    THE    PHARISEE 

(For  a  Drawing  by  D.  G.  R.1) 

"  WHY  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine 

hair? 
Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose,  —  wreath,  lips,  and 

cheek. 
Nay,  not  this  house,  —  that  banquet-house 

we  seek : 
See  how  they  kiss  and  enter  ;  come  thou 

there. 
This   delicate   day   of    love   we    two    will 

share 
Till    at    our  ear  love's   whispering    night 

shall  speak. 
What,  sweet  one,  —  hold'st  thou  still  the 

foolish  freak  ? 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they  '11  leave  the 

stair." 

"  Oh  loose  me  !     Seest  thou  not  my  Bride- 
groom's face 
That  draws  me  to  Him  ?     For  His  feet  my 

kiss, 
My  hair,  my  tears  He   craves  to-day  :  — 

and  oh  ! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and 

place 
Shall  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stain'd  feet 

of  His  ? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me  ;  let  me 


g° 


SUDDEN  LIGHT 


I  HAVE  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell  : 
.  I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 

The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the 
shore. 

and  is  ascending  by  a  sudden  impulse  the  steps  of  the 
and  is  trying  to  turn  her  back. 


398 


POETS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE 


You  have  been  mine  before,  — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  : 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turn'd  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall,  —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  love  restore 

In  death's  despite, 

And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once 
more  ? 


THE    WOODSPURGE 

THE  wind  flapp'd  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill : 
I  had  walk'd  on  at  the  wind's  will,  — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was,  — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas  ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon  ; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The    woodspurge    flower'd,  three  cups    in 


From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me, 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three. 


THE   SEA-LIMITS 

CONSIDER  the  sea's  listless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible,  — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shell. 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end  :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's,  — it  hath 
The  mournf ulness  of  ancient  life, 
Enduring  always  at  dull  strife. 

As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 
Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 
Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 

Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 


Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  alone  among  the  woods  ; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  throng'd  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again,  — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art : 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 


A    LITTLE   WHILE 

A  LITTLE  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 
Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 

If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 

Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 
Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone  ; 

And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 
And  deem'd  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 
Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 

Nor  quite  unleav'd  our  songless  grove. 

Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 

We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 

And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 
One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet : 

I  '11  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD    LADIES 

TRANSLATION    FROM    FRANCOIS  VILLON,    1450 

TELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 
Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 

Where  's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 
Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 


GABRIEL  ROSSETTI  —  DIXON 


399 


Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere,  — 

She  whose    beauty  was  more  than    hu- 
man ?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where  's  He'loise,  the  learned  nun, 

For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 
Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 

(From    Love   he    won    such    dule   and 
teen  !) 

And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 
Who  will'd  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sew'd    in    a    sack's    mouth    down    the 

Seine?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 


White    Queen   Blanche,   like   a   queen   of 

lilies, 

With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden,  — 
Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ennengarde  the  lady  of  Maine,  — 
And    that    good   Joan   whom    English- 
men 

At  Rouen  doorn'd  and  burn'd  her  there,  — 
Mother     of      God,     where      are     they 

then?  .  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Save  with  thus  much  for  an  overword,  — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 


!Dat£on  SDijron 


ODE  ON  CONFLICTING  CLAIMS 

HAST  thou  no  right  to  joy, 

O   youth  grown  old  !  who  palest  with  the 

thought 

Of  the  measureless  annoy, 
The  pain  and  havoc  wrought 
By  Fate  on  man  :  and  of  the  many  men, 
The  unfed,  the  untaught, 
Who  groan  beneath  that  adamantine  chain 
Whose    tightness    kills,    whose    slackness 

whips  the  flow 
Of  waves  of  futile  woe  : 
Hast  thou  no  right  to  joy  ? 

Thou  thinkest  in  thy  mind 

In  thee  it  were  unkind 

To  revel  in  the  liquid  Hyblian  store, 

While  more  and  more  the  horror  and  the 

shame, 

The  pity  and  the  woe  grow  more  and  more, 
Persistent  still  to  claim 
The  filling  of  thy  mind. 

Thou  thinkest  that,  if  none  in  all  the  rout 

Who  compass  thee  about 

Turn  full  their  soul  to  that  which  thou  de- 
sirest, 

Nor  seek  to  gain  thy  goal, 

Beauty,  the  heart  of  beauty, 

The  sweetness,  yea,  the  thoughtful  sweet- 
ness, 

The  one  right  wa^  in  each,  the  best, 


Which  satisfies  the  soul, 

The  firmness  lost  in  softness,  touch  of  typi- 
cal meetness, 

Which  lets  the  soul  have  rest  ; 

Those  things  to  which  thyself  aspirest  :  — 

That  they,  though  born  to  quaff  the  bowl 
divine, 

As  thou  art,  yield  to  the  strict  law  of  duty ; 

And  thou  from  them  must  thine  example 
take, 

Leave  the  amaranthine  vine, 

And  the  prized  joy  forsake. 

O  thou,  foregone  in  this, 

Long  struggling  with  a  world  that  is  amiss, 

Reach  some  old  volume  down, 

Some  poet's  book,  which  in  thy  bygone  years 

Thou  hast  consum'd  with  joys  as  keen  as 
fears, 

When  o'er  it  thou  wouldst  hang  with  rap- 
turous frown, 

Admiring  with  sweet  envy  all 

The  exquisite  of  words,  the  lance-like  fall 

Of  mighty  verses,  each  on  each, 

The  sweetness  which  did  never  cloy, 

(So  wrought  with  thought  ere  touch'd  with 
speech), 

And  ask  again,  Hast  thou  no  right  to  joy  ? 

Take  the  most  precious  tones  that  thunder- 
struck thine  ears 

In  gentler  days  gone  by  : 

And  if  they  yield  no  more  the  old  ecstasy, 

Then  give  thyself  to  tears. 


400 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


HUMANITY 

THERE  is  a  soul  above  the  soul  of  each, 
A   mightier   soul,  which   yet   to  each   be- 
longs : 
There    is    a   sound    made   of   all   human 

speech, 
And   numerous  as    the   concourse   of    all 

songs  : 
And  in  that  soul  lives  each,  in  each  that 

soul, 

Though  all  the  ages  are  its  lifetime  vast  ; 
Each   soul   that   dies,  in   its  most    sacred 

whole 

Receiveth  life  that  shall  forever  last. 
And  thus  forever  with  a  wider  span 
Humanity  o'erarches  time  and  death  ; 
Man  can  elect  the  universal  man, 
And   live   in   life  that   ends  not  with   his 

breath  : 

And  gather  glory  that  increases  still 
Till  Time  his  glass  with  Death's  last  dust 

shall  fill. 


FROM   "MANO:   A   POETICAL 
HISTORY" 

THE   SKYLARK 

THOU  only  bird  that  singest  as  thou  flyest, 
Heaven-mounting   lark,  that   measurest 

with  thy  wing 

The  airy  zones,  till  thou  art  lost  in  highest ! 
Upon  the  branch  the  laughing  thrushes 

cling, 

About  her  home  the  humble  linnet  wheels, 
Around   the   tower  the  gather'd  starlings 

swing  ; 
These  mix  their  songs  and  weave  their 

figur'd  reels  : 

Thou  risest  in  thy  lonely  joy  away, 
From   the  first  rapturous  note  that   from 

thee  steals, 
Quick,  quick,  and  quicker,  till  the  exalted 

lay 

Is  steadied  in  the  golden  breadths  of  light, 
'Mid  mildest  clouds  that  bid   thy  pinions 

stay. 

The   heavens    that  give  would  yet  sus- 
tain thy  flight, 

And  o'er  the  earth  for  ever  cast  thy  voice, 
If  but  to  gain  were  still  to  keep  the  height. 
But  soon  thou  siiikest  on  the  fluttering 
poise 


Of    the    same   wings    that   soar'd :    soon 

ceasest  thou 
The  song  that  grew  invisible  with  joys. 

Love  bids  thy  fall  begin ;  and  thou  art  now 
Dropp'd  back  to  earth,  and  of  the  earth 

again, 
Because  that  love  hath  made  thy  heart  to 

bow. 
Thou  hast  thy  mate,  thy  nest  on  lowly 

plain, 

Thy  timid  heart  by  law  ineffable 
Is  drawn  from  the  high  heavens  where  thou 

shouldst  reign  ; 
Earth  summons  thee  by  her  most  tender 

spell ; 

For  thee  there  is  a  silence  and  a  song  : 
Thy  silence   in  the    shadowy  earth    must 

dwell, 
Thy  song  in  the  bright  heavens  cannot  be 

long. 

—  And  best  to  thee  those  fates  may  I  com- 
pare 
Where  weakness  strives  to  answer  bidding 

strong. 

OF   A   VISION   OF    HELL,   WHICH   A   MONK 
HAD 

OUT  of  this  town  there  riseth  a  high  hill, 

About  whose  sides  live  many  anchorites 
In  cells  cut  in  the  rock  with  curious  skill, 
And  laid  in  terraces  along  the  heights  ; 
This  holy  hill  with  that  where  stands  the 

town 

The  ancient  Roman  aqueduct  unites  ; 
And  passing  o'er  the  vale  her  chain  of 

stone 

Cuts  it  in  two  with  line  indelible  ; 
A  work  right  marvellous  to  gaze  upon. 
To   one   of   those   grave   hermits   there 

befell 

A  curious  thing,  whereof  the  fame  was  new 
In  our  sojourn  ;  the  which  I  here  will  tell. 
He  found  himself  when  night  had  shed 

her  dew, 

In  a  long  valley,  narrow,  deep,  and  straight, 
Like  that   which  lay  all  day  beneath  his 

view. 

On  each  hand  mountains  rc^e  precipitate. 
Whose  tops  for  darkness  he  could  nowise 

see, 

Though  wistful  that  high  gloom  to  pene- 
trate ; 

And    through    this    hollow,     one,    who 
seein'd  to  be 


RICHARD   WATSON   DIXON 


401 


Of  calm  and  quiet  mien,  was  leading  him 
In  friendly  converse  and  society  : 

But  whom  he  wist  not  :  neither  could  he 

trim 
Memory's  spent  torch  to  know  what  things 

were  said, 
Nor   about   what,  in   that   long   way   and 

dim. 

But  as  the  valley  still  before  him  spread, 
He  saw  a  line,  that  did  the  same  divide 
Across  in   halves  :  which  made   him   feel 

great  dread. 

For  he  beheld  fire  burning  on  one  side 
Unto   the    mountains    from   the    midmost 

vale  ; 

On  the  other,  ice  the  empire  did  discide, 
Fed  from  the  opposing   hill  with  snow 

and  hail. 
So   dreary   was    that   haunt   of    fire    and 

cold, 
That    nought   on   earth    to   equal    might 

avail. 
Fire     ended   where   began    the    frozen 

mould ; 

Both  in  extreme  at  their  conjunction : 
So  close  were  they,  no  severance  might  be 

told  : 

No  thinnest  line  of  separation, 
Like   that  which   is   by  painter  drawn  to 

part 

One  color  in  his  piece  from  other  one, 
So  fine  as  that  which  held  these  realms 

apart. 
And  through  the  vale  the  souls  of  men  in 

pain 
From  one  to  the  other  side  did  leap  and 

dart, 
From  heat  to   cold,  from  cold  to  heat 

again  : 
And  not  an  instant  through  their  anguish 

great 

In  either  element  might  they  remain. 
So  great   the  multitude   thus  toss'd   by 

fate, 
That  as  a  mist  they  seem'd  in  the  dark 

air. 
No  shrimper,  who  at   half-tide   takes   his 

freight, 
When  high  his  pole-net  seaward  he  doth 

bear, 

Ever  beheld  so  thick  a  swarm  to  leap 
Out   of   the    brine   on   evening    still    and 

fair, 
Waking   a   mist    mile-long  'twixt  shore 

and  deep. 


Now  while   his  mind  was  fill'd  with  ruth 

and  fear, 
And  with  great  horror  stood  his  eyeballs 

steep, 

Deeming  that  hell   before   him  did  ap- 
pear, 
And  souls  in  torment  toss'd  from  brink  ta 

brink  : 
Upon   him   look'd    the   one   who   set   him 

there, 
And  said  :  "  This  is  not  hell,  as  thou  dost 

think, 
Neither   those   torments   of   the  cold  and 

heat 
Are  those  wherewith  the  damned  wail  and 

shrink." 
And  therewith  from  that  place  he  turn'd 

his  feet ; 
And  sometime  on   they  walk'd,  the  while 

this  man 

In  anguish   shuddering  did   the  effect  re- 
peat : 
Such  spasms  of  horror  through  his  body 

ran, 
Walking  with  stumbling,  and  with  glazed 

eyes 

Whither  he  knew  not  led,  ghastly  and  wan. 
Then  said  the  other  :  "In  those  agonies 
No  more  than  hell's  beginning  know  :  be- 
hold, 

The  doom  of  hell  itself  is  otherwise." 
Therewith  he  drew  aside  his  vesture's 

fold, 
And  show'd  his  heart  :  than  fire  more  hot 

it  burn'd 
One  half  :  the  rest  was  ice  than  ice  more 

cold. 
A  moment  show'd  he  this  :  and  then  he 

turn'd, 

And  in  his  going  all  the  vision  went  : 
And  he,  who  in  his  mind  these  things  dis- 

cern'd, 
Came  to  himself  with  long  astonishment. 

OF   TEMPERANCE   IN   FORTUNE 

HAPPY  the  man  who  so  hath  Fortune  tried 
That    likewise    he     her    poor    relation 

knows  : 
To  whom  both  much  is  given  and  denied  : 

To  riches  and  to  poverty  he  owes 
An  equal  debt  :  of  both  he  makes  acquist, 
And  moderate  in  all  his  mind  he  shows. 
But  ill   befalls   the  man  who   hath  not 
miss'd 


402 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Aught   of    his   heart's   desires,   in  plenty 

nurs'd  : 

For  evil  things  he  knows  not  to  resist  : 
And,   aiding    their   assault,   himself    is 

worst 
Against     himself,     with    self  -  destructive 

rage. 

But  states  are  with  another  evil  curs'd, 
For,  falling  into  luxury  with  age, 


They  burst  in  tumults,  swollen  with  bloody 
shame, 

Which  old  exploits  aggrieve  and  not   as- 
suage. 

Past  temperance  doth  the  present  feast 
inflame  ; 

Past    grandeur     like    too     heavy    armor 
weighs  : 

Great  without  virtue  is  an  evil  name. 


IDifliam 


THE   GILLYFLOWER   OF   GOLD 

A  GOLDEN  gillyflower  to-day 
I  wore  upon  my  helm  alway, 
And  won  the  prize  of  this  tourney. 
Hah  !  hah  I  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

However  well  Sir  Giles  might  sit, 
His  sun  was  weak  to  wither  it, 
Lord  Miles's  blood  was  dew  on  it : 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Although  my  spear  in  splinters  flew 
From  John's  steel-coat,  my  eye  was  true  ; 
I  wheel'd  about,  and  cried  for  you, 
Hah  !  hah  '  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Yea,  do  not  doubt  my  heart  was  good, 
Though  my  sword  flew  like  rotten  wood, 
To  shout,  although  I  scarcely  stood, 
Hah  !  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

My  hand  was  steady,  too,  to  take 
My  axe  from  round  my  neck,  and  break 
John's  steel-coat  up  for  my  love's  sake. 
Hah !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

When  I  stood  in  my  tent  again, 
Arming  afresh,  I  felt  a  pain 
Take  hold  of  me,  I  was  so  fain  — 
Hah  I  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee  — 

To  hear :  "  Honneur  auxfils  des  preux  !  " 
Right  in  my  ears  again,  and  shew 
The  gillyflower  blossom'd  new. 
Hah  !  hah  1  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

The  Sieur  Guillaume  against  me  came, 
His  tabard  bore  three  points  of  flame 


From  a  red  heart  :  with  little  blame  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee  — 

Our  tough  spears  crackled  up  like  straw  ; 
He  was  the  first  to  turn  and  draw 
His  sword,  that  had  nor  speck  nor  flaw,  — 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

But  I  felt  weaker  than  a  maid, 
And  my  brain,  dizzied  and  afraid, 
Within  my  helm  a  fierce  tune  play'd,  — 
Hah!  hah!  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Until  I  thought  of  your  dear  head, 
Bow'd  to  the  gillyflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red  ;  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Crash  !  how  the  swords  met,  "  girqflee  !  " 
The  fierce  tune  in  my  helm  would  play, 
"  La  belle  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee  !  " 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

Once  more  the  great  swords  met  again, 
"La  belle!  la  belle  /"but  who  fell  then 
Le  Sieur  Guillaume,  who  struck  down 

ten  ;  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 

And  as,  with  maz'd  and  unarm'd  face, 
Toward   my  own  crown   and  the  Queen's 

place 

They  led  me  at  a  gentle  pace,  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee,  — 

I  almost  saw  your  quiet  head 
Bow'd  o'er  the  gillyflower  bed, 
The  yellow  flowers  stain'd  with  red,  — 
Hah  !  hah  !  la  belle  jaune  girqflee. 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


4°3 


SHAMEFUL   DEATH 

THERE  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed  ; 

The  mass-priest  knelt  at  the  side, 
I  and  his  mother  stood  at  the  head, 

Over  his  feet  lay  the  bride  ; 
We  were  quite  sure  that  he  was  dead, 

Though  his  eyes  were  open  wide. 

He  did  not  die  in  the  night, 

He  did  not  die  in  the  day, 
But  iu  the  morning  twilight 

His  spirit  pass'd  away, 
When  neither  sun  nor  moon  was  bright, 

And  the  trees  were  merely  gray. 

He  was  not  slain  with  the  sword, 
Knight's  axe,  or  the  knightly  spear, 

Yet  spoke  he  never  a  word 
After  he  came  in  here  ; 

I  cut  away  the  cord 

From  the  neck  of  my  brother  dear.    . 

He  did  not  strike  one  blow, 
For  the  recreants  came  behind, 

In  a  place  where  the  hornbeams  grow, 
A  path  right  hard  to  find, 

For  the  hornbeam  boughs  swing  so 
That  the  twilight  makes  it  blind. 

They  lighted  a  great  torch  then  ; 

When  his  arms  were  pinion'd  fast, 
Sir  John  the  knight  of  the  Fen, 

Sir  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast, 
With  knights  threescore  and  ten, 

Hung  brave  Lord  Hugh  at  last. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  hair  is  all  turn'd  gray, 

But  I  met  Sir  John  of  the  Fen 
Long  ago  on  a  summer  day, 

And  am  glad  to  think  of  the  moment  when 
I  took  his  life  away. 

I  am  threescore  and  ten, 

And  my  strength  is  mostly  past, 

But  long  ago  I  and  my  men, 
When  the  sky  was  overcast, 

And  the  smoke  roll'd  over  the  reeds  of  the 

fen, 
Slew  Guy  of  the  Dolorous  Blast. 

And  now,  knights  all  of  you, 
I  pray  you  pray  for  Sir  Hugh, 
A  good  knight  and  a  true, 
And  for  Alice,  his  wife,  pray  too. 


THE   BLUE   CLOSET 
The  Damozds 

LADY  ALICE,  Lady  Louise, 
Between  the  wash  of  the  tumbling  seas 
We  are  ready  to  sing,  if  so  ye  please  : 
So  lay  your  long  hands  on  the  keys  ; 
Sing  "  Laudate  pueri." 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Boom'd  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
Though  no  one  toll'd  it,  a  knell  for  the  dead^ 

Lady  Louise 

Sister,  let  the  measure  swell 
Not  too  loud  ;  for  you  sing  not  well 
If  you  drown  the  faint  boom  of  the  bell ; 
He  is  weary,  so  am  I. 

A  nd  ever  the  chevron  overhead 
Flapp'd  on  the  banner  of  the  dead  • 
(  Was  lie  asleep,  or  was  he  dead  ?) 

Lady  Alice 

Alice  the  Queen,  and  Louise  the  Queen, 

Two  damozels  wearing  purple  and  green, 

Four  lone  ladies  dwelling  here 

From  day  to  day  and  year  to  year  : 

And  there  is  none  to  let  us  go  ; 

To  break  the  locks  of  the  doors  below, 

Or  shovel  away  the  heap'd-up  snow  ; 

And  when  we  die  no  man  will  know 

That  we  are  dead ;  but  they  give  us  leave, 

Once  every  year  on  Christmas-eve, 

To  sing  iu  the  Closet  Blue  one  song  : 

And  we  should  be  so  long,  so  long, 

If  we  dar'd,  in  singing  ;  for,  dream  on  dream, 

They  float  on  in  a  happy  stream  ; 

Float  from  the  gold  strings,  float  from  the 

keys, 

Float  from  the  open'd  lips  of  Louise  : 
But,  alas  !  the  sea-salt  oozes  through 
The  chinks  of  the  tiles  of  the  Closet  Blue  ; 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 
Booms  in  the  wind  a  knell  for  the  dead, 
The  wind  plays  on  it  a  knell  for  the  dead. 

(  They  sing  all  together :) 

How  long  ago  was  it,  how  long  ago, 
He  came  to  this  tower  with  hands  full  of 
snow? 


404 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


"  Kneel  down,  O  love  Louise,  kneel  down," 

he  said, 
And  sprinkled  the  dusty  snow  over  my  head. 

He  watch'd  the  snow  melting,  it  ran  through 

my  hair, 
Ran  over  my  shoulders,  white  shoulders  and 

bare. 

"  I  cannot  weep  for  thee,  poor  love  Louise, 
For  my  tears  are  all  hidden  deep  under  the 
seas  ; 

"  In  a  gold  and  blue  casket  she  keeps  all  my 

tears, 
But  my  eyes  are  no  longer  blue,  as  in  old 

years  ; 

"  Yea,  they  grow  gray  with  time,  grow  small 

and  dry, 
I  am  so  feeble  now,  would  I  might  die." 

And  in  truth  the  great  bell  overhead 
Left  off"  his  pealing  for  the  dead, 
Perchance  because  the  wind  was  dead. 

Will  he  come  back  again,  or  is  he  dead  ? 
O  !  is  he  sleeping,  my  scarf  round  his  head  ? 

Or  did  they  strangle  him  as  he  lay  there, 
With  the  long  scarlet  scarf  I  used  to  wear  ? 

Only  I  pray  thee,  Lord,  let  him  come  here  ! 
Both  his  soul  and  his  body  to  me  are  most 
dear. 

Dear  Lord,  that  loves  me,  I  wait  to  re- 
ceive 

Either  body  or  spirit  this  wild  Christmas- 
eve. 

Through  the  floor  shot  up  a  lily  red, 

With  a  patch  of  earth  from  the  land  of  the 

dead, 
For  he  was  strong  in  the  land  of  the  dead. 

What  matter  that  his  cheeks  were  pale, 

His  kind  kiss'd  lips  all  gray  ? 
"  O,  love  Louise,  have  you  waited  long  ?  " 

"  O,  my  lord  Arthur,  yea." 

What  if  his  hair  that  brush'd  her  cheek 

Was  stiff  with  frozen  rime  ? 
His  eyes  were  grown  quite  blue  again, 

As  in  the  happy  time. 


"  O,  love  Louise,  this  is  the  key 

Of  the  happy  golden  land  ! 
O,  sisters,  cross  the  bridge  with  me, 

My  eyes  are  full  of  sand. 
What  matter  that  I  cannot  see, 

If  ye  take  me  by  the  hand  ?  " 

And  ever  the  great  bell  overhead 

And  the  tumbling  seas  mourn 'd  for  the  dead} 

For  their  song  ceased,  and  they  were  dead. 


FROM     "THE     EARTHLY     PARA- 
DISE" 

THE  SINGER'S  PRELUDE 

OF    Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to 

sing, 

I  cannot  ease  the  burden  of  your  fears, 
Or  make  quick-coming  death  a  little  thing, 
Or  bring  again  the  pleasure  of  past  years, 
Nor  for  my  words  shall  ye  forget   your 

tears, 

Or  hope  again  for  aught  that  I  can  say, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

But  rather,  when  aweary  of  your  mirth 
From  full  hearts  still  unsatisfied  ye  sigh, 
And,  feeling  kindly  unto  all  the  earth, 
Grudge  every  minute  as  it  passes  by, 
Made  the  more  mindful  that  the  sweet  days 

die.  — 

Remember  me  a  little  then,  I  pray, 
The  idle  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

The  heavy  trouble,  the  bewildering  care 
That  weighs  us  down  who  live  and  earn  our 

bread, 

These  idle  verses  have  no  power  to  bear  ; 
So  let  me  sing  of  names  remembered, 
Because  they,  living  not,  can  ne'er  be  dead, 
Or   long   time    take    their   memory   quite 

away 
From  us  poor  singers  of  an  empty  day. 

Dreamer  of  dreams,  born  out  of  my  due 

time, 
Why  should  I   strive  to  set  the  crooked 

straight  ? 
Let   it   suffice    me    that    my   murmuring 

rhyme 
Beats    with   light   wing  against  the  ivory 

gate, 
Telling  a  tale  not  too  importunate 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


405 


To  those  who  in  the  sleepy  region  stay, 
Lull'd  by  the  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

Folk  say,  a  wizard  to  a  northern  king 
At   Christmas-tide   such   wondrous  things 

did  show, 
That  through  one  window  men  beheld  the 

spring, 
And   through    another    saw   the   summer 

glow, 
And   through   a   third   the   fruited    vines 

a-row, 
While   still,   unheard,   but   in   its   wonted 

way, 
Pip'd   the   drear   wind   of  that  December 

day. 

So  with  this  Earthly  Paradise  it  is, 
If  ye  will  read  aright,  and  pardon  me, 
Who  strive  to  build  a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss 
Midmost  the  beating  of  the  steely  sea, 
Where  toss'd  about  all  hearts  of  men  must 

be  ; 
Whose    ravening    monsters    mighty  men 

shall  slay, 
Not  the  poor  singer  of  an  empty  day. 

ATALANTA'S  VICTORY 

Through   thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter 

went, 
Following  the  beasts  up,  on  a  fresh  spring 

day  ; 
But  since  his  horn-tipp'd  bow  but  seldom 

bent, 
Now  at  the  noontide  nought  had  happ'd  to 

slay, 

Within  a  vale  he  call'd  his  hounds  away, 
Hearkening  the  echoes  of   his  lone  voice 

cling 
About  the  cliffs,  and  through  the  beech-trees 

ring. 

But  when   they  ended,  still  awhile   he 

stood, 
And  but  the  sweet  familiar  thrush  could 

hear, 

And  all  the  day-long  noises  of  the  wood, 
And   o'er   the  dry  leaves  of   the  vanish'd 

year 
His   hounds'  feet   pattering  as  they  drew 

anear, 
And  heavy  breathing  from  their  heads  low 


To  see  the  mighty  cornel  bow  unstrung. 


Then,  smiling,  did  he  turn  to  leave  the 

place, 
But  with  his  first  step  some  new  fleeting 

thought 

A  shadow  cast  across  his  sun-burn'd  face  ; 
I  think  the  golden  net  that  April  brought 
From  some  warm  world  his  wavering  soul 

had  caught ; 
For,  sunk  in  vague,  sweet  longing,  did  he 

g° 

Betwixt  the  trees  with  doubtful  steps  and 
slow. 

Yet,  howsoever  slow  he  went,  at  last 

The  trees  grew  sparser,  and  the  wood  was 
done  ; 

Whereon  one  farewell,  backward  look  he 
cast, 

Then,  turning  round  to  see  v/hat  place  was 
won, 

With  shaded  eyes  look'd  underneath  the 
sun, 

And  o'er  green  meads  and  new-turn'd  fur- 
rows brown 

Beheld  the  gleaming  of  King  Schceneus' 
town. 

So  thitherward  he  turn'd,  and  on  each 
side 

The  folk  were  busy  on  the  teeming  land, 

And  man  and  maid  from  the  brown  fur- 
rows cried, 

Or  'midst  the  newly  blossom'd  vines  did 
stand, 

And,  as  the  rustic  weapon  press'd  the 
hand, 

Thought  of  the  nodding  of  the  well-fill'd 
ear, 

Or  how  the  knife  the  heavy  bunch  should 
shear. 

Merry   it   was  :    about    him    sung    the 

birds, 
The  spring  flowers  bloom'd  along  the  firm, 

dry  road, 
The  sleek-skinn'd  mothers   of  the  sharp- 

horn'd  herds 
Now  for   the   barefoot   milking  -  maidens 

low'd  ; 
While    from    the    freshness    of    his    blue 

abode, 

Glad    his    death-bearing    arrows    to    for- 
get, 
The  broad  sun  blaz'd,  nor  scatter'd  plaguep 

as  yet. 


406 


POETS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE 


Through  such  fair  things  unto  the  gates 

he  came, 
And   found   them   open,  as   though  peace 

were  there  ; 
Wherethrough,  unquestion'd  of  his  race  or 

name, 

He  enter'd,  and  along  the  streets  'gan  fare, 
Which  at  the  first  of  folk  were  well-nigh 

bare  ; 

But  pressing  on,  and  going  more  hastily, 
Men  hurrying,  too,  he  'gan  at  last  to  see. 

Following  the  last  of  these,  he  still  press'd 

on, 

Until  an  open  space  he  came  unto, 
Where  wreaths  of  fame  had  oft  been  lost 

and  won, 
For  feats  of  strength  folk  there  were  wont 

to  do. 
And  now  our  hunter  look'd  for  something 

new, 
Because  the   whole  wide  space  was   bare, 

and  still'd 
The   high  seats   were,  with   eager  people 

fill'd. 

There  with  the  others  to  a  seat  he  gat, 
Whence  he  beheld  a  broider'd  canopy, 
'Neath  which  in  fair  array  King  Schceneus 

sat 

Upon  his  throne  with  councillors  thereby  ; 
And  underneath  this  well-wrought  seat  and 

high 

He  saw  a  golden  image  of  the  sun, 
A  silver  image  of  the  Fleet-foot  One. 

A  brazen  altar  stood  beneath  their  feet 
Whereon  a  thin  flame  flicker'd  in  the  wind  ; 
Nigh  this  a  herald  clad  in  raiment  meet 
Made  ready  even  now  his  horn  to  wind, 
By  whom  a  huge  man  held  a  sword,  en- 

twin'd 
With  yellow  flowers  ;  these  stood  a  little 

space 
From  off  the  altar,  nigh  the  starting  place. 

And  there  two   runners    did    the   sign 

abide, 
Foot  set  to  foot,  —  a  young  man  slim  and 

fair, 
Crisp-hair'd,    well   knit,   with   firm   limbs 

often  tried 
In  places  where  no  man  his  strength  may 

spare  : 
Dainty  his  thin  coat  was,  and  on  his  hair 


A  golden  circlet  of  renown  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  an  olive  garland  bore. 

But  on  this  day  with  whom  shall  he  con- 
tend ? 

A  maid  stood  by  him  like  Diana  clad 
When  in  the  woods  she   lists  her  bow  to 

bend, 

Too  fair  for  one  to  look  on  and  be  glad, 
Who  scarcely  yet  has  thirty  summers  had. 
If  he  must  still  behold  her  from  afar  ; 
Too  fair  to  let  the  *vorld  live  free  from  war. 

She  seem'd  all  earthly  matters  to  forget  ; 
Of  all  tormenting  lines  her  face  was  clear  ; 
Her  wide  gray  eyes  upon  the  goal  were 

set 
Calm  and  unmov'd  as  though  no  soul  were 

near. 

But  her  foe  trembled  as  a  man  in  fear, 
Nor  from  her  loveliness  one  moment  turn'd 
His   anxious   face  with   fierce  desire   that 

burn'd. 

Now  through  the  hush  there  broke  the 

trumpet's  clang 

Just  as  the  setting  sun  made  eventide. 
Then  from  light  feet  a  spurt  of  dust  there 

sprang, 

And  swiftly  were  they  running  side  by  side  ; 
But  silent  did  the  thronging  folk  abide 
Until  the  turning-post  was  reach'd  at  last, 
And  round  about  it  still  abreast  they  past. 

But  when  the  people  saw  how  close  they 

ran, 
When  half-way  to  the  starting-point  they 

were, 

A  cry  of  joy  broke  forth,  whereat  the  man 
Headed  the  white-foot  runner,  and  drew 

near 

Unto  the  very  end  of  all  his  fear ; 
And  scarce  his  straining  feet   the  ground 

could  feel, 
And  bliss  unhop'd  for  o'er  his  heart  'gan 

steal. 

But  'midst  the  loud  victorious  shouts  he 

heard 
Her  footsteps    drawing    nearer,   and    the 

sound 

Of  fluttering  raiment,  and  thereat  afeard 
His    flush'd    and    eager  face    he    turn'd 

around, 
And  even  then  he  felt  her  past  him  bound 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


407 


Fleet  as  the   wind,  but   scarcely  saw   her 

there 
Till  on  the  goal  she  laid  her  fingers  fair. 

There  stood   she  breathing  like  a  little 

child 

Amid  some  warlike  clamor  laid  asleep, 
For  no  victorious  joy  her  red  lips  smil'd, 
Her   cheek  its  wonted   freshness  did   but 

keep  ; 
No  glance  lit  up  her  clear  gray  eyes  and 

deep, 
Though  some  divine  thought  soften'd   all 

her  face 
As  once  more  rang  the  trumpet  through  the 

place. 

But  her  late  foe  stopp'd  short  amidst  his 

course, 

One  moment  gaz'd  upon  her  piteously, 
Then  with  a  groan  his  lingering  feet  did 

force 
To  leave  the  spot  whence  he  her  eyes  could 

see  ; 
And,  changed  like  one  who  knows  his  time 

must  be 

But  short  and  bitter,  without  any  word 
He  knelt  before  the  bearer  of  the  sword  ; 

Then  high  rose  up  the  gleaming  deadly 

blade, 
Bar'd    of    its   flowers,    and    through    the 

crowded  place 
Was   silence  now,  and    midst    of    it   the 

maid 
Went  by  the   poor   wretch    at    a    gentle 

pace, 
And  he   to   hers   upturn'd   his   sad  white 

face  ; 

Nor  did  his  eyes  behold  another  sight 
Ere  on  his  soul  there  fell  eternal  night. 

ATALANTA'S  DEFEAT 

Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone 

by, 
Again   are  all  folk   round   the  running 

place, 

Xor  other  seems  the  dismal  pageantry 
Than  heretofore,  but  that  another  face 
Looks  o'er  the  smooth  course  ready  for  the 

race, 

For  now,  beheld  of  all,  Milanion 
Stands   on   the   spot   he   twice  has  look'd 

upon. 


But  yet  —  what  change  is  this  that  holds 

the  maid  ? 

Does  she  indeed  see  in  his  glittering  eye 
More  than  disdain  of  the  sharp  shearing 

blade, 

Some  happy  hope  of  help  and  victory  ? 
The  others  seem'd  to  say,  "We  come   to 

die  ; 

Look  down  upon  us  for  a  little  while, 
That,  dead,    we   may   bethink   us   of   thy 

smile." 

But  he  —  what  look  of  mastery  was  this 
He'cast  on  her  ?  why  were  his  lips  so  red  ? 
Why  was  his  face  so  flush'd  with  happiness  ? 
So  looks  not  one  who  deems  himself  but 

dead, 

E'en  if  to  death  he  bows  a  willing  head  ; 
So  rather  looks  a  god  well  pleas'd  to  find 
Some  earthly  damsel  fashion'd  to  his  mind. 

Why  must  she  drop  her  lids  before  his 

gaze, 

And  even  as  she  casts  adown  her  eyes 
Redden  to  note  his  eager  glance  of  praise, 
And   wish    that   she   were    clad   in   other 

guise  ? 

Why  must  the  memory  to  her  heart  arise 
Of  things  unnoticed  when  they  first  were 

heard, 
Some  lover's  song,  some  answering  maiden's 

word? 

What  makes  these  longings,  vague,  with- 
out a  name, 

And  this  vain  pity  never  felt  before, 
This   sudden    languor,    this    contempt    of 

fame, 

This  tender  sorrow  for  the  time  past  o'er, 
These  doubts  that  grow  each  minute  more 

and  more  ? 
Why  does  she  tremble  as  the  time  grows 

near, 
And  weak  defeat  and  woeful  victory  fear  ? 

But  while  she  seem'd  to  hear  her  beat- 
ing heart, 

Above  their  heads  the  trumpet  blast  rang 
out 

And  forth  they  sprang,  and  she  must  play 
her  part  ; 

Then  flew  her  white  feet,  knowing  not  a 
doubt, 

Though,  slackening  once,  she  turn'd  her 
head  about, 


408 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


But  then  she  cried  aloud  and  faster  fled 
Than  e'er  before,  and  all  men  deeni'd  him 
dead. 

But  with  no  sound  he  rais'd  aloft    his 

hand, 
And   thence   what   seem'd  a  ray  of  light 

there  flew 

And  past  the  maid  roll'd  on  along  the  sand  ; 
Then  trembling  she  her  feet  together  drew, 
And  in  her  heart  a  strong  desire  there 

grew 
To  have  the  toy  ;  some  god  she  thought 

had  given  • 

That  gift    to    her,  to   make   of    earth  a 

heaven. 

Then  from  the  course  with  eager  steps 

she  ran, 

And  in  her  odorous  bosom  laid  the  gold. 
But   when   she    turn'd   again,    the    great- 

limb'd  man, 

Now  well  ahead,  she  fail'd  not  to  behold, 
And,  mindful -of  her  glory  waxing  cold, 
Sprang   up  and  follow'd  him  in  hot  pur- 
suit, 

Though   with  one  hand    she  touch'd    the 
golden  fruit. 

Note,  too,  the  bow  that  she  was  wont  to 

bear 

She  laid  aside  to  grasp  the  glittering  prize, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  from  the  quiver  fair 
Three  arrows  fell  and  lay  before  her  eyes 
Unnoticed,  as  amidst  the  people's  cries 
She  sprang  to  head  the  strong  Milanion, 
Who  now  the   turning-post  had  well-nigh 


But  as  he  set  his  mighty  hand  on  it 
White    fingers  underneath    his  own  were 

laid, 
And  white  limbs  from  his  dazzled  eyes  did 

flit; 

Then  he  the  second  fruit  cast  by  the  maid, 
But  she  ran  on  awhile,  then  as  afraid 
Waver'd  and  stopp'd,  and  turn'd  and  made 

no  stay 
Until  the  globe  with  its  bright  fellow  lay. 

Then,   as   a   troubled    glance    she   cast 

around, 

Now  far  ahead  the  Argive  could  she  see, 
And  in  her  garment's  hem  one  hand  she 

wound 


To  keep  the  double  prize,  and  strenuously 
Sped  o'er  the  course,  and  little  doubt  had 

she 
To  win   the  day,  though  now   but  scanty 

space 
Was   left   betwixt  him  and  the    winning 

place. 

Short   was   the  way   unto   such   winged 

feet ; 

Quickly  she  gain'd  upon  him,  till  at  last 
He  turn'd  about  her  eager  eyes  to  meet, 
And  from  his  hand  the  third  fair  apple 

cast. 
She   waver'd  not,  but  turn'd    and   ran  so 

fast 

After  the  prize  that  should  her  bliss  fulfil, 
That  in  her  hand  it  lay  ere  it  was  still. 

Nor  did  she  rest,  but   turn'd  about  to 

win 

Once  more  an  unbless'd  woeful  victory  — 
And  yet  —  and  yet  —  why  does  her  breath 

begin 

To  fail  her,  and  her  feet  drag  heavily  ? 
Why  fails  she  now  to  see  if  far  or  nigh 
The  goal  is  ?  why  do  her  gray  eyes  grow 

dim  ? 
Why  do  these  tremors  run  through  every 

limb? 

She  spreads  her  arms  abroad  some  stay 

to  find, 
Else   must   she   fall,   indeed,  and   findeth 

this, 
A  strong  man's  arms  about  her  body  en- 

twin'd. 

Nor  may  she  shudder  now  to  feel  his  kiss, 
So  wrapt  she  is  in  new  unbroken  bliss  : 
Made  happy  that  the  foe  the  prize  hath 

won. 
She  weeps   glad  tears  for  all  her  glory 

done. 

THE  KING'S   VISIT 

So  long  he  rode  he  drew  anigh 
A  mill  upon  the  river's  brim, 
That  seem'd  a  goodly  place  to  him, 
For  o'er  the  oily  smooth  millhead 
There  hung  the  apples  growing  red, 
And  many  an  ancient  apple-tree 
Within  the  orchard  could  he  see, 
While  the  smooth  millwalls  white  and  black 
Shook  to  the  great  wheel's  measur'd  clack, 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


409 


And  grumble  of  the  gear  within  ; 
While  o'er  the  roof  that  dull'd  that  din 
The  doves  sat  crooning  half  the  day, 
And  round  the  half-cut  stack  of  hay 
The  sparrows  flutter'd  twittering. 

There  smiling  stay'd  the  joyous  king, 
And  since  the  autumn  noon  was  hot 
Thought  good  anigh  that  pleasant  spot 
To  dine  that  day,  and  therewith  sent 
To  tell  the  miller  his  intent  : 
Who  held  the  stirrup  of  the  king, 
Bareheaded,  joyful  at  the  thing, 
While  from  his  horse  he  lit  adown, 
Then  led  him  o'er  an  elm-beam  brown, 
New  cut  in  February  tide, 
That  cross'd  the  stream  from  side  to  side  ; 
So  underneath  the  apple  trees 
The  king  sat  careless,  well  at  ease, 
And  ate  and  drank  right  merrily. 

To  whom  the  miller  drew  auigh 
Among  the  courtiers,  bringing  there 
Such  as  he  could  of  country  fare, 
Green  yellowing  plums  from  off  his  wall, 
Wasp-bitten  pears,  the  first  to  fall 
From  off  the  wavering  spire-like  tree, 
Junkets,  and  cream  and  fresh  honey. 

SONG  :    TO'  PSYCHE 

O  PEXSIVE,  tender  maid,  downcast  and  shy, 
Who  turnest  pale  e'en  at  the  name  of 
love, 

And  with  flush 'd  face  must  pass  the  elm- 
tree  by 

Asham'd  to  hear  the  passionate  gray  dove 

Moan  to  his  mate,  thee  too  the  god  shall 
move, 

Thee  too  the  maidens  shall  ungird  one 
day, 

And  with  thy  girdle  put  thy  shame  away. 

What  then,  and  shall  white  winter  ne'er 

be  done 

Because  the  glittering  frosty  morn  is  fair  ? 
Because  against  the  early-setting  sun 
Bright    show   the   gilded   boughs    though 

waste  and  bare  ? 

Because  the  robin  singeth  free  from  care  ? 
Ah  !  these  are  memories  of  a  better  day 
When  on  earth's  face  the  lips  of  summer 

lay. 

Come  then,  beloved  one,  for  such  as  thee 
Love  loveth,  and  their  hearts  he  knoweth 
well, 


Who  hoard  their  moments  of  felicity, 

As   misers   hoard    the   medals   that   they 

tell, 
Lest  on  the  earth  but  paupers  they  should 

dwell : 

"  We  hide  our  love  to  bless  another  day  ; 
The  world  is  hard,   youth  passes  quick," 

they  say. 

Ah,  little  ones,  but  if  ye  could  forget 
Amidst  your  outpour'd  love  that  you  must 

die, 
Then  ye,  my  servants,  were  death's   con 

querors  yet, 

And  love  to  you  should  be  eternity 
How  quick  soever  might  the  days  go  by  : 
Yes,  ye  are  made  immortal  on  the  day 
Ye   cease    the    dusty  grains    of    time   to 

weigh. 

Thou   hearkenest,   love  ?    O,  make   no 

semblance  then 

Thou  art  beloved,  but  as  thy  wont  is 
Turn  thy   gray   eyes  away  from  eyes  of 

men, 
With  hands   down-dropp'd,  that  tremble 

with  thy  bliss, 
With  hidden  eyes,  take   thy  first  lover's 

kiss  ; 

Call  this  eternity  which  is  to-day, 
Nor  dream  that   this   our  love   can  pass 

away. 

A  LAND  ACROSS   THE   SEA 

ACROSS  the  sea  a  land  there  is, 

Where,  if  fate  will,  men  may  have  bliss, 
For  it  is  fair  as  any  land  : 
There  hath  the  reaper  a  full  hand, 
While  in  the  orchard  hangs  aloft 
The  purple  fig,  a-growing  soft  ; 
And  fair  the  trellis 'd  vine-bunches 
Are  swung  across  the  high  elm-trees  ; 
And  in  the  rivers  great  fish  play, 
While  over  them  pass  day  by  day 
The  laden  barges  to  their  place. 
There  maids  are  straight,  and  fair  of  face. 
And  men  are  stout  for  husbandry, 
And  all  is  well  as  it  can  be 
Upon  this  earth  where  all  has  end. 

For  on  them  God  is  pleas'd  to  send 
The  gift  of  Death  down  from  above, 
That  envy,  hatred,  and  hot  love. 
Knowledge  with  hunger  by  his  side, 
And  avarice  and  deadly  pride, 


4io 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


There  may  have  end  like  everything 
Both  to  the  shepherd  and  the  king  : 
Lest  this  green  earth  become  but  hell 
If  folk  thereon  should  ever  dwell. 

Full  little  most  men  think  of  this, 
But  half  in  woe  and  half  in  bliss 
They  pass  their  lives,  and  die  at  last 
Unwilling,  though  their  lot  be  cast 
In  wretched  places  of  the  earth, 
Where  men  have  little  joy  from  birth 
Until  they  die  ;  in  no  such  case 
Were  those  who  till'd  this  pleasant  place. 

There  soothly  men  were  loth  to  die, 
Though  sometimes  in  his  misery 
A  man  would  say  "  Would  I  were  dead  !  " 
Alas  !  full  little  likelyhead 
That  he  should  live  forever  there. 

So  folk  within  that  country  fair 
Liv'd  on  unable  to  forget 
The  long'd-for  things  they  could  not  get, 
And  without  need  tormenting  still 
Each  other  with  some  bitter  ill  ; 
Yea,  and  themselves  too,  growing  gray 
With  dread  of  some  long-lingering  day, 
That  never  came  ere  they  were  dead 
With  green  sods  growing  on  the  head  ; 
Nowise  content  with  what  they  had, 
But  falling  still  from  good  to  bad 
While  hard  they  sought  the  hopeless  best ; 
And  seldom  happy  or  at  rest 
Until  at  last  with  lessening  blood 
One  foot  within  the  grave  they  stood. 


ANTIPHONY 

Hcec 

IN  the  white-flower'd  hawthorn  brake, 
Love,  be  merry  for  my  sake  ; 
Twine  the  blossoms  in  my  hair, 
Kiss  me  where  I  am  most  fair  — 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

Ille 

Nay,  the  garlanded  gold  hair 
Hides  thee  where  thou  art  most  fair  ; 
Hides  the  rose-tinged  hills  of  snow  — 
Ah,  sweet  love,  I  have  thee  now  ! 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

HCEC 

Shall  we  weep  for  a  dead  day, 
Or  set  Sorrow  in  our  way  ? 


Hidden  by  my  golden  hair, 
Wilt  thou  weep  that  sweet  days  wear  ? 
Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 
What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 

Ille 

Weep,  O  Love,  the  days  that  flit, 
Now,  while  I  can  feel  thy  breath  ; 

Then  may  I  remember  it 

Sad  and  old,  and  near  my  death. 

Kiss  me,  love  !  for  who  knoweth 

What  thing  cometh  after  death  ? 


FROM    "SIGURD    THE 
VOLSUNG" 

OE   THE   PASSING   AWAY   OF   BRYNHILD 

THEY  look'd  on  each  other  and  spake  not ; 
but  Gunnar  gat  him  gone, 

And  came  to  his  brother  Hogni,  the  wise- 
heart  Giuki's  son, 

And  spake  :  "  Thou  art  wise,  O  Hogni  ;  go 
in  to  Brynhild  the  queen, 

And  stay  her  swift  departing  ;  or  the  last 
of  her  days  hath  she  seen." 

"  It  is    nought,    thy   word,"   said   Hogni ; 

"  wilt  thou  bring  dead  men  aback, 
Or  the  souls  of  kings  departed  midst   the 

battle  and  the  wrack  ? 
Yet    this  shall  be  easier  to  thee  than  the 

turning  Brynhild's  heart ; 
She  came  to  dwell  among  us,  but  in  us  she 

had  no  part ; 

Let  her  go  her  ways  from  the  Nib- 
lungs  with  her  hand  in  Sigurd's 

hand. 
Will  the  grass  grow  up  henceforward  where 

her  feet  have  trodden  the  land  ?  " 

"  O  evil  day,"  said  Gunnar,  "  when  my 
queen  must  perish  and  die  ! " 

"  Such  oft  betide,"  said  Hogni,  "  as  the  lives 

of  men  flit  by  ; 
But  the  evil  day  is  a  day,  and  on  each  day 

groweth  a  deed, 
And   a  thing  that  never   dieth  ;   and   the 

fateful  tale  shall  speed. 
Lo  now,  let  us  harden  our  hearts  and  set 

our  brows  as  the  brass, 
Lest  men  say  it, '  They  loath 'd  the  evil  and 

they  brought  the  evil  to  pass. ' ' 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


411 


So  they  spake,  and  their  hearts  were  heavy, 
and  they  long'd  for  the  morrow 
morn, 

And  the  morrow  of  to-morrow,  and  the  new 
day  yet  to  be  born. 

But  Brynhild  cried  to  her  maidens  :  "  Now 

open  ark  and  chest, 
Ajid   draw  forth  queenly   raiment  of   the 

loveliest  and  the  best, 
Hed  things  that  the  Dwarf-lords  fashion'd, 

fair  cloths  that  queens  have  sew'd 
To  array  the  bride  for  the  mighty,  and  the 

traveller  for  the  road." 

They  wept   as  they  wrought   her  bidding 

and  did  on  her  goodliest  gear  ; 
But  she  laugh'd  mid  the  dainty  linen,  and 

the  gold-rings  fashion'd  fair  : 
She  arose  from  the  bed  of  the  Niblungs, 

and  her  face  no  more  was  wan  ; 
As  a  star  in  the  dawn-tide  heavens,  mid  the 

dusky  house  she  shone  ; 
And  they  that  stood  about  her,  their  hearts 

were  rais'd  aloft 
Amid   their  fear    and   wonder :   then   she 

spake  them  kind  and  soft  : 

"  Now  give  me  the  sword,  O  maidens, 
wherewith  I  shear'd  the  wind 

When  the  Kings  of  Earth  were  gather'd  to 
know  the  Chooser's  mind." 

All  sheath'd  the  maidens  brought  it,  and 

fear'd  the  hidden  blade, 
But  the  naked  blue-white  edges  across  her 

knees  she  laid, 
And   spake  :    "  The  heap'd-up  riches,  the 

gear  my  fathers  left, 
All  dear-bought  woven  wonders,  all  rings 

from  battle  reft, 
All   goods   of    men     desired,   now    strew 

them  on  the  floor, 
And    so  share   among  you,  maidens,    the 

gifts  of  Brynhild's  store." 

They  brought  them  mid  their  weeping,  but 

none  put  forth  a  hand 
To  take  that  wealth  desired,  the  spoils  of 

many  a  land  : 

There  they  stand  and  weep  before  her,  and 
some  are  mov'd  to  speech, 

And  they  cast  their  arms  about  her  and 
strive  with  her,  and  beseech 


That   she  look   on  her  lov'd-ones'  sorrow 

and  the  glory  of  the  day. 
It   was    nought  ;    she    scarce    might    see 

them,    and    she     put    their    hands 

away, 
And    she   said :    "  Peace,   ye     that     love 

me  !    and  take   the   gifts  and   the 

gold 
In   remembrance  of  my   fathers   and   the 

faithful  deeds  of  old." 

Then  she  spake  :  "  Where  now  is  Gunnar, 
that  I  may  speak  with  him  ? 

For  new  things  are  mine  eyes  behold- 
ing, and  the  Niblung  house  grows 
dim, 

And  new  sounds  gather  about  me,  that 
may  hinder  me  to  speak 

When  the  breath  is  near  to  flitting,  and 
the  voice  is  waxen  weak.  " 

Then  upright  by  the  bed  of  the  Niblungs 
for  a  moment  doth  she  stand, 

And  the  blade  flasheth  bright  in  the  cham- 
ber, but  no  more  they  hinder  her 
hand 

Than  if  a  God  were  smiting  to  rend  the 
world  in  two  : 

Then  dull'd  are  the  glittering  edges,  and 
the  bitter  point  cleaves  through 

The  breast  of  the  all-wise  Brynhild,  and 
her  feet  from  the  pavement  fail, 

And  the  sigh  of  her  heart  is  hearken'd  mid 
the  hush  of  the  maidens'  wail. 

Chill,  deep  is  the  fear  upon  them,  but  they 
bring  her  aback  to  the  bed, 

And  her  hand  is  yet  on  the  hilt,  and  side- 
long droopeth  her  head. 

Then  there  cometh  a  cry  from  without- 

ward,  and  Gunnar's  hurrying  feet 
Are   swift   on  the   kingly   threshold,  and 

Brynhild's  blood  they  meet. 
Low  down  o'er  the  bed  he  hangeth   and 

hearkeneth  for  her  word, 
And  her  heavy  lids  are  open'd  to  look  on 

the  Niblung  lord, 
And  she  saith  :  "  I  pray  thee  a  prayer,  the 

last  word  in  the  world  I  speak, 
That  ye  bear  me  forth  to  Sigurd,  and  the 

hand  my  hand  would  seek  ; 
The  bale  for  the  dead  is  builded,  it  is 

wrought  full  wide  on  the  plain, 
It  is  rais'd  for  Earth's  best  Helper,  and 

thereon  is  room  for  twain  : 


412 


POETS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE 


Ye  have  hung  the  shields  about  it,  and  the 

Southland  hangings  spread, 
There  lay  me  adown  by  Sigurd  and  my  head 

beside  his  head : 
But  ere  you  leave  us   sleeping,  draw  his 

Wrath  from  out  the  sheath, 
And  lay  that  Light  of  the  Branstock,  and 

the  blade  that  frighted  death 
Bstwixt  my  side  and  Sigurd's,  as  it  lay  that 

while  agone, 
When  once  in  one  bed  together  we  twain 

were  laid  alone  : 
How  then  when  the  flames  flare  upward 

may  I  be  left  behind  ? 
How  then  niay  the  road  he  wendeth  be  hard 

for  my  feet  to  find  ? 
How  then  in  the  gates  of  Valhall  may  the 

door  of  the  gleaming  ring 
Clash  to  on  the  heel  of  Sigurd,  as  I  follow 

on  my  king  ?  " 

Then  she  rais'd  herself  on  her  elbow,  but 

again  her  eyelids  sank, 
And  the  wound  by  the  sword-edge  whisper'd, 

as  her  heart  from  the  iron  shrank, 
And  she  moan'd  :  "  O  lives  of  man-folk,  for 

unrest  all  overlong 
By  the  Father  were  ye  fashion'd  ;  and  what 

hope  amendeth  wrong  ? 
Now  at  last,  O  my  beloved,  all  is  gone ;  none 

else  is  near, 
Through  the  ages  of  all  ages,  never  sun- 

der'd,  shall  we  wear.  " 

Scarce  more  than  a  sigh  was  the  word,  as 

back  on  the  bed  she  fell, 
Nor  was  there  need  in  the  chamber  of  the 

passing  of  Brynhild  to  tell  ; 
And  no  more  their  lamentation  might  the 

maidens  hold  aback, 
But  the  sound  of  their  bitter  mourning  was 

as  if  red-handed  wrack 
Ran  wild  in  the  Burg  of  the  Niblungs,  and 

the  fire  were  master  of  all. 

Then  the  voice  of  Gunnar  the  war-king 

cried  out  o'er  the  weeping  hall : 
"  Wail   on,   O    women   forsaken,   for    the 

mightiest  woman  born  ! 
Now  the  hearth  is  cold  and  joyless,  and  the 

waste  bed  lieth  forlorn, 
Wail  on,  but  amid  your  weeping  lay  hand 

to  the  glorious  dead, 
That  not  alone  for  an  hour  may  lie  Queen 

Brynhild's  head  : 


For  here  have  been  heavy  tidings,  and  the 
Mightiest  under  shield 

Is  laid  on  the  bale  high-builded  in  the  Nib- 
lungs'  hallow'd  field. 

Fare  forth !  for  he  abideth,  and  we  do  All- 
father  wrong, 

If  the  shining  Valhall's  pavement  await 
their  feet  o'erlong." 

Then  they  took  the  body  of  Brynhild  in  the 

raiment  that  she  wore, 
And  out  through  the  gate  of  the  Niblungs 

the  holy  corpse  they  bore, 
And  thence  forth  to  the  mead  of  the  people, 

and  the  high-built  shielded  bale  ; 
Then  afresh  in  the  open  meadows  breaks 

forth  the  women's  wail 
When  they  see  the  bed  of  Sigurd,  and  the 

glittering  of  his  gear  ; 

And  fresh  is  the  wail  of  the  people  as  Bryn- 
hild draweth  anear, 
And  the  tidings  go  before  her  that  for  twain 

the  bale  is  built, 
That  for  twain  is  the  oak-wood  shielded 

and  the  pleasant  odors  spilt. 

There  is  peace  on  the  bale  of  Sigurd,  and 

the  Gods  look  down  from  on  high, 
And  they  see  the  lids  of  the  Volsung  close 

shut  against  the  sky, 
As  he  lies  with  his  shield  beside  him  in  the 

Hauberk  all  of  gold, 
That  has  not  its  like  in  the  heavens,  nor  has 

earth  of  its  fellow  told  ; 
And  forth  from  the  Helm  of  Aweing  are 

the  sunbeams  flashing  wide, 
And  the  sheathed  Wrath  of  Sigurd  lies  still 

by  his  mighty  side. 
Then  cometh  an  elder  of  days,  a  man  of  the 

ancient  times, 
Who  is  long  past  sorrow  and  joy,  and  the 

steep  of  the  bale  he  climbs  ; 
And   he    kneeleth    down   by    Sigurd,   and 

bareth  the  Wrath  to  the  sun 
That  the  beams  are  gather'd  about  it,  and 

from  hilt  to  blood-point  run, 
And   wide  o'er  the   plain  of  the  Niblungs 

doth   the    Light   of   the   Branstock 

glare, 
Till  the  wondering  mountain-shepherds  on 

that  star  of  noontide  stare, 
And  fear  for  many  an  evil  ;  but  the  ancient 

man  stands  still 
With  the   war-flame  on  his  shoulder,  not 

thinks  of  good  or  of  ill, 


WILLIAM   MORRIS 


Till  the  feet  of  Brynhild's  bearers  on  the 

topmost  bale  are  laid, 
And  her  bed  is  dight  by  Sigurd's  ;  then  he 

sinks  the  pale  white  blade 
And  lays  it  'twixt  the  sleepers,  and  leaves 

them  there  alone  — 
He,  the  last  that  shall  ever  behold  them,  — 

and  his  days  are  well  nigh  done. 

Then  is  silence  over  the  plain  ;  in  the  moon 

shine  the  torches  pale 
As  the  best  of  the  Niblung  Earl-folk  bear 

fire  to  the  builded  bale  : 
Then  a  wind  in  the  west  ariseth,  and  the 

white  flames  leap  on  high, 
And  with  one   voice   crieth   the   people  a 

great  and  mighty  cry, 
And  men  cast  up  hands  to  the  Heavens,  and 

pray  without  a  word, 
As  they  that  have   seen  God's  visage,  and 

the  face  of  the  Father  have  heard. 

They  are  gone  —  the  lovely,  the  mighty,  the 

hope  of  the  ancient  Earth  : 
It  shall  labor  and  bear  the  burden  as  before 

that  day  of  their  birth  ; 
It  shall  groan  in  its  blind  abiding  for  the 

day  that  Sigurd  hath  sped, 
And  the  hour  that  Brynhild  hath  hasten'd, 

and    the    dawn    that    waketh    the 

dead  : 
It  shall  yearn,  and  be  oft-times  holpen,  and 

forget  their  deeds  no  more, 
Till  the  new  sun  beams  on  Baldur,  and  the 

happy  sealess  shore. 


THE  BURGHERS'  BATTLE 

THICK  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  land 

That  erst  the  harvest  bore  ; 

The  sword  is  heavy  in  the  hand, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

The  light  wind  waves  the  Ruddy  Fox, 

Our  banner  of  the  war, 

And  ripples  in  the  Running  Ox, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Across  our  stubble  acres  now 

The  teams  go  four  and  four  ; 

But  outworn  elders  guide  the  plough, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

And  now  the  women,  heavy-eyed, 

Turn  through  the  open  door 

From  gazing  down  the  highway  wide, 

Where  ice  return  no  more. 


The  shadows  of  the  f  ruite'd  close 

Dapple  the  feast-hall  floor  ; 

There  lie  our  dogs  and  dream  and  doze, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Down  from  the  minster  tower  to-day 

Fall  the  soft  chimes  of  yore 

Amidst  the  chattering  jackdaws'  play  : 

And  we  return  no  more. 

But  underneath  the  streets  are  still  ; 

Noon,  and  the  market 's  o'er  ! 

Back  go  the  goodwives  o'er  the  hill  ; 

For  we  return  no  more. 

What  merchant  to  our  gates  shall  come  ? 

What  wise  man  bring  us  lore  ? 

What  abbot  ride  away  to  Rome, 

Now  we  return  no  more  ? 

What  mayor  shall  rule  the  hall  we  built  ? 

Whose  scarlet  sweep  the  floor  ? 

What  judge  shall  doom  the  robber's  guilt, 

Now  we  return  no  more  f 

New  houses  in  the  streets  shall  rise 

Where  builded  we  before, 

Of  other  stone  wrought  otherwise  ; 

For  we  return  no  more. 

And  crops  shall  cover  field  and  hill, 

Unlike  what  once  they  bore, 

And  all  be  done  without  our  will, 

Now  we  return  no  more. 

Look  up  !  the  arrows  streak  the  sky, 

The  horns  of  battle  roar  ; 

The  long  spears  lower  and  draw  nigh, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Remember  how,  beside  the  wain, 

We  spoke  the  word  of  war, 

And  sow'd  this  harvest  of  the  plain, 

And  we  return  no  more. 

Lay  spears  about  the  Ruddy  Fox  ! 

The  days  of  old  are  o'er  ; 

Heave  sword  about  the  Running  Ox  ! 

For  we  return  no  more. 


A   DEATH   SONG 

WHAT  cometh  here   from   west    to    east 

a-wending  ? 
And  who  are  these,  the  marchers  stern  and 

slow? 
We   bear   the   message  that   the  rich  are 

sending 
Aback  to  those  who  bade  them  wake  and 

know. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they 

slay, 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day 


414 


POETS   OF  THE   RENAISSANCE 


We  ask'd  them  for  a  life  of  toilsome  earn- 
ing, 

They  bade  us  bide  their  leisure  for  our 
bread  ; 

We  crav'd  to  speak  to  tell  our  woeful  learn- 
ing : 

We  come  back  speechless,  bearing  back  our 
dead. 

They  will  not  learn  ;  they  have  no  ears  to 

hearken  ; 
They  turn  their  faces  from  the  eyes  of  fate ; 


Their  gay-lit  halls  shut  out  the  skies  that 

darken. 
But,  lo  !  this  dead  man  knocking  at  the  gate. 

Here  lies  the  sign  that  we  shall  break  our 

prison  ; 

Amidst  the  storm  he  won  a  prisoner's  rest  ; 
But  in  the  cloudy  dawn  the  sun  arisen 
Brings  us  our  day  of  work  to  win  the  best. 
Not  one,  not  one,  nor  thousands  must  they 

slay, 
But  one  and  all  if  they  would  dusk  the  day. 


llorfc  BDe  €abiep 

(JOHN  LEICESTER  WARREN) 


A  WOODLAND   GRAVE 

BRING  no  jarring  lute  this  way 

To  demean  her  sepulchre, 
Toys  of  love  and  idle  day 
Vanish  as  we  think  of  her. 
We,  who  read  her  epitaph, 
Find  the  world  not  worth  a  laugh. 

Light,  our  light,  what  dusty  night 

Numbs  the  golden  drowsy  head  ? 
Lo  !  empath'd  in  pearls  of  light, 
Morn  resurgent  from  the  dead  ; 
From  whose  amber  shoulders  flow 
Shroud  and  sheet  of  cloudy  woe. 

Woods  are  dreaming,  and  she  dreams  : 

Through  the  foliaged  roof  above 
Down  immeasurably  streams 
Splendor  like  an  angel's  love, 
Till  the  tomb  and  gleaming  urn 
In  a  mist  of  glory  burn. 

Cedars  there  in  outspread  palls 

Lean  their  rigid  canopies  ; 
Yet  a  lark  note  through  them  falls, 
As  he  scales  his  orient  skies. 
That  aerial  song  of  his, 
Sweet,  might  come  from  thee  in  bliss. 

There  the  roses  pine  and  weep 
Strong,  delicious  human  tears  ; 

There  the  posies  o'er  her  sleep 

Through   the  years  —  ah  !   through  the 
years : 


Spring  on  spring  renew  the  show 
Of  their  frail  memorial  woe. 

Wreaths  of  intertwisted  yew 

Lay  for  cypress  where  she  lies, 
Mingle  perfume  from  the  blue 
Of  the  forest  violet's  eyes. 
Let  the  squirrel  sleek  its  fur, 
And  the  primrose  peep  at  her. 

We  have  seen  three  winters  sow 

Hoarfrost  on  thy  winding-sheet : 
Snows  return  again,  and  thou 
Hearest  not  the  crisping  sleet. 
Winds  arise  and  winds  depart, 
Yet  no  tempest  rocks  thy  heart. 

We  have  seen  with  fiery  tongue 

Thrice  the  infant  crocus  born  : 
Thrice  its  trembling  curtain  hung 
In  a  chink  of  frozen  morn. 
This  can  rear  its  silken  crest  : 
Nothing  thaws  her  ice-bound  breast. 

We  have  eaten,  we  have  earn'd 

Wine  of  grief  and  bread  of  care, 
We,  who  saw  her  first  inurn'd 
In  the  dust  and  silence  there. 

We  have  wept  —  ah  God  !  not  so : 
Trivial  tears  dried  long  ago. 

But  we  yearn  and  make  our  moan 
For  the  step  we  us'd  to  know  : 

Gentle  hand  and  tender  tone, 
Laughter  in  a  silver  flow  : 


LORD   DE  TABLEY 


All  that  sweetness  in  thy  chain, 
Tyrant  Grave,  restore  again. 

Bring  again  the  maid  who  died  : 

We  have  wither'd  since  she  went. 
O  unseal  the  shadowy  side 
Of  her  marble  monument ; 
Earth,  disclose  her  as  she  lies 
Doz'd  with  woodland  lullabies. 


A   SIMPLE   MAID 

THOU  hast  lost  thy  love,  poor  fool, 
Creep  into  thy  bed  and  weep. 
Loss  must  be  a  maiden's  school, 
Loss  and  love  and  one  long  sleep. 
Half  her  time  perplex'd  with  tears 
Till  the  dust  end  all  her  years,  — 
All  her  fears. 

Was  thy  love  so  gracious,  lass  ? 

Never  such  a  love  before 

In  this  old  world  came  to  pass, 

Nor  shall  be  for  evermore. 

Sweet  and  true,  a  king  of  men, 
None  like  him  shall  come  again,  — 
Come  again. 

Was  thy  bud  so  precious,  lass, 

Opening  to  a  perfect  rose  ? 

Till  between  the  leaves,  alas  ! 

Winter  fell  in  flaky  snows. 

Then,  ah  !  then,  its  crimson  side 
Brake  upon  the  briers  and  died,  — 
Brake  and  died. 


FORTUNE'S   WHEEL 

I  HAD  a  true-love,  none  so  dear, 
And  a  friend  both  leal  and  tried  : 

I  had  a  cask  of  good  old  beer, 
And  a  gallant  horse  to  ride. 

A  little  while  did  Fortune  smile 

On  him  and  her  and  me  : 
We  sang  along  the  road  of  life 

Like  birds  upon  a  tree. 

My  lady  fell  to  shame  and  hell, 
And  with  her  took  my  friend  ; 

My  cask  ran  sour,  my  horse  went  lame, 
So  alone  in  the  cold  I  end. 


CIRCE 

THIS  the  house  of  Circe,  queen  of  charms,  — 
A  kind  of  beacon-cauldron  pois'd  on  high, 
Hoop'd    round  with   ember-clasping    iron 

bars, 
Sways  in  her  palace  porch,  and  smoulder- 


Drips  out  in  blots  of  fire  and  ruddy  stars  : 

But  out  behind  that  trembling  furnace  air 

The  lands  are  ripe  and  fair, 

Hush  are  the  hills  and  quiet  to  the  eye. 

The  river's  reach  goes  by 

With  lamb  and  holy  tower  and  squares  of 

corn, 

And  shelving  interspace 
Of  holly  bush  and  thorn 
And  hamlets  happy  in  an  Alpine  morn, 
And  deep-bower'd  lanes  with  grace 
Of  woodbine  newly  born. 

But  inward  o'er  the  hearth  a  torch-head 

stands 

Inverted,  slow  green  flames  of  fulvous  hue, 
Echoed  in  wave-like  shadows  over  her. 
A    censer's   swing-chain  set  in    her    fair 

hands 

Dances  up  wreaths  of  intertwisted  blue 
In  clouds   of  fragrant    frankincense  and 

myrrh. 

A  giant  tulip  head  and  two  pale  leaves 
Grew  in  the  midmost  of  her  chamber  there. 
A  flaunting  bloom,  naked  and  undivine, 
Rigid  and  bare, 

Gaunt  as  a  tawny  bond-girl  born  to  shame, 
With   freckled  cheeks  and    splotch'd  side 

serpentine, 

A  gipsy  among  flowers, 
Unmeet  for  bed  or  bowers, 
Virginal  where  pure-handed  damsels  sleep  : 
Let  it  not  breathe  a  common  air  with  them, 
Lest  when  the  night  is  deep, 
And  all   things   have   their   quiet   in  the 

moon, 

Some  birth  of  poison  from  its  leaning  stem 
Waft  in  between  their  slumber-parted  lips, 
And  they  cry  out  or  swoon, 
Deeming  some  vampire  sips 
Where  riper  Love  may  come   for   nectar 

boon  ! 

And  near  this  tulip,  rear'd  across  a  loom, 
Hung  a  fair  web  of  tapestry  half  done, 
Crowding  with  folds  and  fancies  half  the 


416 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Men  eyed   as  gods,  and   damsels  still  as 

stone, 

Pressing  their  brows  alone, 
In  amethystine  robes, 

Or  reaching  at  the  polish'd  orchard  globes, 
Or  rubbing  parted  love-lips  on  their  rind, 
While  the  wind 
Sows  with  sere  apple-leaves  their    breast 

and  hair. 

And  all  the  margin  there 
Was  arabesqued  and  border'd  intricate 
With  hairy  spider  things, 
That  catch  and  clamber, 
And  salamander  in  his  dripping  cave 
Satanic  ebon-amber  ; 
Blind  worm,  and  asp,  and  eft  of  cumbrous 

gait, 
And  toads  who  love  rank  grasses  near  a 

grave, 

And  the  great  goblin  moth,  who  bears 
Between    his   wings    the    ruin'd    eyes   of 

death  ; 

And  the  enamell'd  sails 
Of   butterflies,  who  watch   the  morning's 

breath, 
And  many  an  emerald  lizard  with  quick 

ears 

Asleep  in  rocky  dales  ; 
And  for  outer  fringe,  embroider'd  small, 
A  ring  of  many  locusts,  horny-coated, 
A   round   of    chirping    tree-frogs   merry- 
throated, 
And  sly,  fat  fishes  sailing,  watching  all. 


A   SONG  OF   FAITH    FORSWORN 

TAKE  back  your  suit. 

It  came  when  I  was  weary  and  distraught 

With  hunger.    Could  I  guess  the  fruit  you 

brought  ? 

I  ate  in  mere  desire  of  any  food, 
Nibbled    its  edge,  and    nowhere  found    it 

good. 
Take  back  your  suit. 

Take  back  your  love. 

It  is  a  bird  poach'd  from  my  neighbor's 

wood  : 
Its  wings  are  wet  with  tears,  its  beak  with 

blood. 
'Tis  a  strange  fowl  with  feathers  like  a 

crow  : 

Death's  raven,  it  may  be,  for  all  we  know. 
Take  back  your  love. 


Take  back  your  gifts. 

False  is  the  hand  that  gave  them  ;  and  the 

mind 
That  plann'd  them,  as  a  hawk  spread  in 

the  wind 
To  poise  and  snatch  the  trembling  mouse 

below, 

To  ruin  where  it  dares  —  and  then  to  go. 
Take  back  your  gifts. 

Take  back  your  vows. 

Elsewhere  you  trimm'd  and  taught  these 

lamps  to  burn  ; 
You  bring  them  stale  and  dim  to  serve  my 

turn. 

You  lit  those  candles  in  another  shrine, 
Gutter'd    and    cold  you    offer    them  on 

mine. 
Take  back  your  vows. 

Take  back  your  words. 

What  is  your  love  ?  Leaves  on  a  woodland 
plain, 

Where  some  are  running  and  where  some 
remain. 

What  is  your  faith  ?  Straws  on  a  moun- 
tain height, 

Dancing  like  demons  on  Walpurgis  night. 

Take  back  your  words. 

Take  back  your  lies. 

Have  them  again  :  they  wore  a  rainbow 
face, 

Hollow  with  sin  and  leprous  with  dis- 
grace : 

Their  tongue  was  like  a  mellow  turret 
bell 

To  toll  hearts  burning  into  wide-lipp'd  hell. 

Take  back  your  lies. 

Take  back  your  kiss. 

Shall  I  be  meek,  and  lend  my  lips  again 

To    let   this   adder   daub   them   with    his 

stain  ? 

Shall  I  turn  cheek  to  answer,  when  I  hate  ? 
You  kiss  like  Judas  in  the  garden  gate  ! 
Take  back  your  kiss. 

Take  back  delight, 

A  paper  boat  lauuch'd  on  a  heaving  pool 
To  please  a  child,  and  folded  by  a  fool ; 
The  wild  elms  roar'd  :  it  sail'd  —  a  yard 

or  more. 

Out  went  our  ship,  but  never  came  to  shora 
Take  back  delight. 


LORD   DE  TABLEY  — SWINBURNE 


Take  back  your  wreath. 

Has  it  done  service  on  a  fairer  brow  ? 

Fresh,  was  it  folded  round  her  bosom  snow  ? 

Her  cast-off  weed  my  breast  will  never 
wear  :  • 

Your  word  is  '  love  me  ; '  my  reply,  '  de- 
spair ! ' 

Take  back  your  wreath. 

THE  TWO    OLD    KINGS 

Ix  ruling  well  what  guerdon  ?     Life  runs 

low, 

As  yonder  lamp  upon  the  hour-glass  lies, 
Waning  and  wasted.     We  are  great  and 

wise, 
But  Love  is  gone,  and  Silence  seems  to  grow 


Along    the    misty   road   where   we    must 

g°- 

From  summits  near  the  morning  star's  up- 
rise 

Death  comes,  a  shadow  from  the  northern 
skies, 

As,  when  all  leaves  are  down,  thence 
comes  the  snow. 

Brother  and  king,  we  hold  our  last  carouse. 

One  loving-cup  we  drain,  and  then  fare- 
well. 

The  night  is  spent.  The  crystal  morning 
ray 

Calls  us,  as  soldiers  laurell'd  on  our  brows, 

To  march  undaunted,  while  the  clarions 
swell, 

Heroic  hearts,  upon  our  lonely  way. 


A   MATCH 

IF  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf, 

Our  lives  would  grow  together 

In  sad  or  singing  weather, 

Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes, 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief  ; 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 
With  double  sound  and  single 
Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 
With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 

That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon  ; 
If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death, 

We  'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  ; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling, 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 
And  I  were  page  to  joy, 


We  'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy  ; 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We  'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers, 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  niglifc  were  bright  like  day  ; 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain, 
We  'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather, 
And  teach  his  feet  "a  measure, 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein  ; 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 

HESPERIA 

OUT  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where 

the  sea  without  shore  is, 
Full  of  the  sunset,  and  sad,  if  at  all,  with 
the  fulness  of  joy, 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


As  a  wind   sets  in  with  the  autumn   that 

blows  from  the  region  of  stories, 
Blows  with  a  perfume  of  songs  and  of 

memories  belov'd  from  a  boy, 
Blows  from  the  capes  of  the  past  oversea 

to  the  bays  of  the  present, 
Fill'd  as  with  shadow  of  sound  with  the 

pulse  of  invisible  feet, 
Far  out  to  the  shallows  and  straits  of  the 

future,  by  rough  ways  or  pleasant, 
Is  it  thither  the  wind's  wings  beat  ?  is  it 

hither  to  me,  O  my  sweet  ? 
For  thee,  in  the  stream  of  the  deep  tide- 
wind  blowing  in  with  the  water, 
Thee  I  behold  as  a  bird  borne  in  with 

the  wind  from  the  west, 
Straight    from    the    sunset,  across    white 

waves  whence  rose  as  a  daughter 
Venus   thy  mother,  in   years  when  the 

world  was  a  water  at  rest. 
Out  of  the  distance  of  dreams,  as  a  dream 

that  abides  after  slumber, 
Stray 'd  from  the  fugitive  flock   of   the 

night,  when  the  moon  overhead 
Wanes  in  the   wan   waste  heights  of   the 

heaven,  and  stars  without  number 
Die  without  sound,  and  are  spent  like 

lamps  that  are  burnt  by  the  dead, 
Comes  back  to  me,  stays  by  me,  lulls  me 

with  touch  of  forgotten  caresses, 
One  warm  dream  clad  about  with  a  fire 

as  of  life  that  endures  ; 
The  delight    of   thy  face,  and   the   sound 
of   thy  feet,  and   the  wind  of   thy 
tresses, 
And  all  of  a  man  that  regrets,  and  all  of 

a  maid  that  allures. 
But  thy  bosom  is  warm  for  my  face  and 

profound  as  a  manifold  flower, 
Thy  silence  as  music,  thy  voice  as  an 

odor  that  fades  in  a  flame  ; 
Not  a  dream,  not  a  dream  is  the  kiss  of  thy 

mouth,  and  the  bountiful  hour 
That   makes   me   forget  what   was   sin, 
and  would  make  me  forget  were  it 
shame. 
Thine  eyes  that  are  quiet,  thy  hands  that 

are  tender,  thy  lips  that  are  loving, 
Comfort  and  cool  me  as  dew  in  the  dawn 

of  a  moon  like  a  dream  ; 
And  my  heart   yearns   baffled   and  blind, 
mov'd  vainly  toward  thee,  and  mov- 
ing 

As  the  refluent   seaweed   moves  in  the 
languid  exuberant  stream, 


Fair  as  a  rose  is  on  earth,  as  a  rose  under 

water  in  prison, 
That  stretches  and  swings  to  the  slow 

passionate  pulse  of  the  sea, 
Clos'd  up  fftom  the  air  and  the  sun,  but 

alive,  as  a  ghost  re-arisen, 
Pale  as  the  love  that  revives  as  a  ghost 

re-arisen  in  me. 
From  the  bountiful  infinite  west,  from  the 

happy  memorial  places 
Full  of  the  stately  repose  and  the  lordly 

delight  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  fortunate  islands  are  lit  with 

the  light  of  ineffable  faces, 
And  the  sound  of  a  sea  without  wind  is 

about  them,  and  sunset  is  red, 
Come  back  to  redeem  and  release  me  from 

love  that  recalls  and  represses, 
That  cleaves  to  my  flesh  as  a  flame,  till 

the  serpent  has  eaten  his  fill ; 
From  the  bitter  delights  of  the  dark,  and 

the  feverish,  the  furtive  caresses 
That  murder  the  youth  in  a  man  or  ever 

his  heart  have  its  will. 
Thy  lips  cannot  laugh  and  thine  eyes  can- 
not weep  ;  thou  art  pale  as  a  rose 
is, 
Paler  and  sweeter  than  leaves  that  cover 

the  blush  of  the  bud  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  flower  is  compassion, 

and  pity  the  core  it  incloses, 
Pity,  not  love,  that  is  born  of  the  breath 

and  decays  with  the  blood. 
As  the  cross  that  a  wild  nun  clasps  till  the 

edge  of  it  bruises  her  bosom, 
So  love  wounds  as  we  grasp  it,  and  black- 
ens and  burns  as  a  flame  ; 
I  have  lov'd  overmuch  in  my  life  :  when 
the  live  bud  bursts  with  the  blos- 
som, 
Bitter  as  ashes  or  tears  is  the  fruit,  and 

the  wine  thereof  shame. 
As  a  heart  that  its  anguish  divides  is  the 

green  bud  cloven  asunder  ; 
As  the  blood  of  a  man  self-slain  is  the 

flush  of  the  leaves  that  allure  ; 
And  the  perfume  as  poison  and  wine  to  the 

brain,  a  delight  and  a  wonder  ; 
And   the   thorns   are   too    sharp    for   a 
boy,  too   slight   for   a   man,  to  en- 
dure. 
Too  soon  did  I  love  it,  and  lost  love's  rose ; 

and  I  car'd  not  for  glory's  : 
Only  the  blossoms  of  sleep  and  of  plea- 
sure were  mix'd  in  my  hair. 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


419 


Was  it  myrtle  or  poppy  thy  garland  was 

woven  with,  O  iny  Dolores  ? 
Was  it  pallor  or  slumber,  or  blush  as  of 

blood,  that  I  found  in  thee  fair  ? 
For  desire  is  a  respite  from  love,  and  the 

flesh,  not  the  heart,  is  her  fuel  ; 
She  was  sweet  to  me  once,  who  am  fled 
and  escap'd  from  the  rage   of  her 
reign  ; 
Who  behold  as  of  old  time  at  hand  as  I  turn, 

with  her  mouth  growing  cruel, 
And  flush'd  as  with  wine  with  the  blood 

of  her  lovers,  Our  Lady  of  Pain. 
Low  down  where  the  thicket  is  thicker  with 
thorns  than  with  leaves  in  the  sum- 
mer, 

In  the  brake  is  a  gleaming  of  eyes 
and  a  hissing  of  tongues  that  I 
knew  ; 

And  the  lithe  long  throats  of  her  snakes 
reach  round  her,  their  mouths  over- 
come her, 
And  her  lips  grow  cool  with  their  foam, 

made  moist  as  a  desert  with  dew. 
With  the  thirst   and   the  hunger  of   lust 
though    her    beautiful    lips    be   so 
bitter, 
With  the  cold  foul  foam  of  the  snakes 

they  soften  and  redden  and  smile  ; 
And  her  fierce  mouth  sweetens,  her  eyes 
wax  wide   and   her   eyelashes   glit- 
ter, 
And  she  laughs  with  a  savor  of  blood  in 

her  face,  and  a  savor  of  guile. 
She  laughs,  and  her  hands  reach  hither,  her 

hair  blows  hither  and  hisses 
As  a  low-lit  flame  in  a  wind,  back-blown 

till  it  shudder  and  leap  ; 
Let  her  lips  not  again  lay  hold  on  my  soul, 

nor  her  poisonous  kisses, 
To  consume  it  alive  and  divide  from  thy 

bosom,  Our  Lady  of  Sleep. 
Ah,  daughter  of  sunset  and  slumber,  if  now 

it  return  into  prison, 
Who  shall  redeem  it  anew  ?   but  we,  if 

thou  wilt,  let  us  fly  ; 
Let  us  take  to  us,  now  that  the  white  skies 

thrill  with  a  moon  unarisen, 
Swift  horses  of  fear  or  of  love,  take  flight 

and  depart  and  not  die. 
They  are    swifter   than   dreams,  they  are 
stronger  than  death  ;  there  is  none 
that  hath  ridden, 

None  that  shall  ride  in  the  dim  strange 
ways  of  his  life  as  we  ride  : 


By  the  meadows  of  memory,  the  highlands 

of  hope,  and  the  shore  that  is  hidden, 

Where  life  breaks   loud   and  unseen,  a 

sonorous  invisible  tide  ; 
By  the  sands  where   sorrow  has   trodden, 

the  salt  pools  titter  and  sterile, 
By  the  thundering  reef  and  the  low  sea 

wall  and  the  channel  of  years, 
Our  wild  steeds  press  on  the  night,  strait 

hard  through  pleasure  and  peril, 
Labor  and  listen  and  pant  not  or  pause 

for  the  peril  that  nears  ; 
And  the  sound  of  them  trampling  the  way 

cleaves  night  as  an  arrow  asunder, 
And  slow  by  the  sand-hill  and  swift  by 
the  down  with  its  glimpses  of  grass, 
Sudden  and  steady  the  music,  as  eight  hoofs 

trample  and  thunder, 
Rings  in  the  ear  of  the  low  blind  wind  of 

the  night  as  we  pass  ; 
Shrill  shrieks  in  our  faces  the  blind  bland 

air  that  was  mute  as  a  maiden, 
Stung  into   storin  by  the  speed  of   our 

passage,  and  deaf  where  we  past ; 
And  our  spirits  too  burn  as  we  bound,  thine 

holy  but  mine  heavy-laden, 
As  we  burn  with  the  fire  of  our  flight  ; 
ah,  love,  shall  we  win  at  the  last  ? 


IN    MEMORY   OF   WALTER   SAV- 
AGE   LANDOR 

BACK  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring, 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea, 

Fill'd  full  of  sun  ; 
All  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free  ; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive  ;  but  not 

That  holier  head. 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year  : 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 
On  mine  as  there, 


420 


POETS   OF   THE   RENAISSANCE 


Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 
Upon  my  hair. 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before  ; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

1  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end, 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  anything  endure, 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free, 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now  ; 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  brow ; 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.     Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more  ;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  releast, 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep, 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust, 

His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 


LOVE   AT   SEA 

IMITATED   FROM   TH^OPHILE   GAUTIER 

WE  are  in  love's  land  to-day  ; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 
Love,  shall  we  start  or  stay, 

Or  sail  or  row  ? 
There  's  many  a  wind  and  way, 
And  never  a  May  but  May  ; 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day  ; 

Where  shall  we  go  ? 


Our  landwind  is  the  breath 
Of  sorrows  kiss'd  to  death 

And  joys  that  were  ; 
Our  ballast  is  a  rose  ; 
Our  way  lies  where  God  knows 

And  love  knows  where. 

We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day  • 

Our  seamen  are  fledged  Loves, 
Our  masts  are  bills  of  doves, 

Our  decks  fine  gold  ; 
Our  ropes  are  dead  maids'  hair, 
Our  stores  are  love-shafts  fair 

And  manifold. 

We  are  in  love's  land  to-day  • 

Where  shall  we  land  you,  sweet  ? 
On  fields  of  strange  men's  feet, 

Or  fields  near  home  ? 
Or  where  the  fire-flowers  blow, 
Or  where  the  flowers  of  snow 

Or  flowers  of  foam  ? 
We  are  in  love's  hand  to-day  • 

Land  me,  she  says,  where  love 
Shows  but  one  shaft,  one  dove, 

One  heart,  one  hand,  — 
A  shore  like  that,  my  dear, 
Lies  where  no  man  will  steer, 

No  maiden  land. 


FROM    "ROSAMOND" 

ROSAMOND   AT   WOODSTOCK 

Rosamond.  Are  you  tir'd  ? 

But  I  seem  shameful  to  you,  shameworthy, 
Contemnable  of  good  women,  being  so  bad, 
So  bad  as  I  am.  Yea,  would  God,  would 

God, 
I  had  kept  my  face  from  this  contempt  of 

yours. 

Insolent  custom  would  not  anger  me 
So  as  you  do  ;  more  clean  are  you  than  I, 
Sweeter  for  gathering  of  the  grace  of  God 
To   perfume   some   accomplish'd   work  in 

heaven  ? 

I  do  not  use  to  scorn,  stay  pure  of  hate, 
Seeing  how  myself  am  scorn'd  unworthily ; 
But  anger  here  so  takes  me  in  the  throat 
I  would  speak  now  for  fear  it  strangle  me. 
Here,  let  me  feel  your  hair  and  hands  and 

face  ; 
I  see  not  flesh  is  holier  than  flesh, 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


421 


Or  blood  than  blood  more  choicely  quali- 
fied 
That    scorn    should    live    between    them. 

Better  am  I 
Than   many  women  ;    you   are    not    over 

fair, 

Nor  delicate  with  some  exceeding  good 
In   the   sweet   flesh  ;    you   have  no  much 

tenderer  soul 
Than  love   is  moulded  out  of  for  God's 

use 
Who  wrought  our  double  need  ;    you  are 

not  so  choice 

That  in  the  golden  kingdom  of  your  eyes 
All  coins  should  inelt  for  service.     But  I 

that  am 

Part  of  the  perfect  witness  for  the  world 
How  good  it  is  ;  I  chosen  in  God's  eyes 
To  fill  the  lean  account  of  under  men, 
The  lank  and  hunger-bitten  ugliness 
Of  half  his  people  ;  I  who  make  fair  heads 
Bow,  saying,  "  Though  we  be  in  no  wise 

fair 
We  have  touch'd  all  beauty  with  our  eyes, 

we  have 

Some  relish  in  the  hand,  and  in  the  lips 
Some  breath  of   it,"  because  they  saw  me 

once  ; 
I  whose  curl'd  hair  was  as  a  strong  stak'd 

net 

To  take  the  hunters  and  the  hunt,  and  bind 
Faces  and  feet  and  hands  ;  a  golden  gin 
Wherein  the  tawny-lidded  lions  fell, 
Broken  at  ankle  ;  I  that  am  yet,  ah  yet, 
And  shall  be  till  the  worm  hath  share  in 

me, 
Fairer   than   love   or   the   clean   truth    of 

God, 
More  sweet  than  sober   customs  of   kind 

use 

That   shackle   pain   and   stablish   temper- 
ance ; 

I  that  have  roses  in  my  name,  and  make 
All  flowers  glad  to  set  their  color  by  ; 
I  that  have  held  a  land  between  twin  lips 
And  turn'd  large  England  to  a  little  kiss  ; 
God  thinks  not  of  me  as  contemptible  ; 
And   that   you   think  me  even  a  smaller 

thing 
Than  your  own  goodness  and  slight  name 

of  good, 

Your  special,  thin,  particular  repute,  — 
I  would  some  mean  could  be  but  clear  to 

me 
Not  tc  contemn  you. 


FROM  "ATALANTA  IN  CALY- 
DON  " 

CHORUS  :  — "  WHEN      THE      HOUNDS      OF 
SPRING  " 

WHEN  the  hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter'? 

traces, 
The  mother  of  months  in  meadow  or 

plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the   Thracian  ships  and   the   foreign 

faces, 
The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of 

quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 
With   a   clamor   of  waters,  and  with 

might ; 

Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet, 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet ; 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west 

shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet 
of  the  night. 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing 

to  her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and 

cling  ? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could 

spring  to  her, 
Fire,  or  the  strength  of   the  streams 

that  spring  ! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  ; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to 

her, 

And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west- 
wind  sing. 

For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins  ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light   that   loses,  the  night   that 

wins  ; 

And  time  remember'd  is  grief  forgotten, 
And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 


422 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 

Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot, 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of   the  young  year 

flushes 

From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The   chestnut-husk   at  the    chestnut- 
root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  arid  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Msenad  and  the  Bassarid ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide, 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows,  hiding  her  eyes  ; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 
Her    bright    breast    shortening    into 

sighs  ; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its 

leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that 
flies. 

FROM  THE  CHORUS,    "WE  HAVE  SEEN 
THEE,   O   LOVE  !  " 

WE  have  seen  thee,  O  Love,  thou  art  fair  ; 

thou  art  goodly,  O  Love  ; 
Thy  wings  make  light  in  the  air  as  the 

wings  of  a  dove. 
Thy  feet  are   as  winds    that    divide   the 

stream  of  the  sea ; 

Earth  is  thy  covering  to  hide  thee,  the  gar- 
ment of  thee. 
Thou  art  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a 

flame  of  fire  ; 
Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the 

tears  of  desire  ; 
And  twain  go  forth  beside  thee,  a  man  with 

a  maid  ; 
Her  eyes  are  the   eyes  of  a  bride  whom 

delight  makes  afraid  ; 
As  the  breath  in  the  buds  that  stir  is  her 

bridal  breath  : 
But  Fate  is  the  name  of  her  ;  and  his  name 

is  Death. 


FROM    "CHASTELARD" 

CHASTELARD   AND   MARY   STUART 

Scene.  —  In  Prison,  before   Chastelard's 
Execution. 

Queen.    Would     God     my    heart    were 

greater  ;  but  God  wot 
I  have  no  heart  to  bear  with  fear  and  die. 
Yea,  and  I  cannot  help  you  :  or  I  know 
I  should  be  nobler,  bear  a  better  heart : 
But  as  this  stands  —  I  pray  you  for  good 

love, 
As  you  hold  honor  a  costlier   thing  than 

life  — 

Chastelard.  Well? 
Queen.  Nay,  I  would  not 

be  denied  for  shame  ; 
In  brief,  I  pray  you  give  me  that  again. 
Chast.  What,  my  reprieve  ? 
Queen.  Even  so  ;  deny  me  not. 

For  your  sake  mainly  :   yea,  by  God  you 

know 
How  fain  I   were  to  die  in  your  death's 

stead, 
For  your  name's  sake.     This  were  no  need 

to  swear, 

Lest  we  be  mock'd   to  death  with  a  re- 
prieve, 
And  so  both  die,  being    sham'd.      What, 

shall  I  swear  ? 

What,  if  I  kiss  you  ?  must  I  pluck  it  out  ? 
You   do   not   love    me  :     no,    nor    honor. 

Come, 

I  know  you  have  it  about  you  :   give  it  me. 
Chast.     I  cannot  yield  you  such  a  thing 

again  ; 
Not  as  I  had  it. 

Queen.         A  coward  ?  what  shift  now  ? 
Do  such  men  make  such  cravens  ? 

Chast.  Chide  me  not  : 

Pity  me  that  I  cannot  help  my  heart. 
Queen.  Heaven  mend  mine  eyes  that  took 

you  for  a  man  ! 
What,  is  it  sewn  into  your  flesh  ?    take 

heed  — 
Nay,  but  for  shame  —  what  have  you  done 

with  it  ? 

Chast.  Why,  there  it  lies,  torn  up. 
Queen.  God  help  me,  sir  ! 

Have  you  done  this  ? 

Chast.       Yea,  sweet  ;  what  should  I  do  ? 
Did  I  not  know  you  to  the  bone,  my  sweet  ? 
God  speed  you  well  ?  you  have  a  goodly 
lord. 


ALGERNON   CHARLES    SWINBURNE 


423 


Queen.     My  love,  sweet  love,  you  are 

more  fair  than  he, 

Yea,  fairer  many  times  :  I  love  you  much, 
Sir,  know  you  that  ? 

Chast.  I  think  I  know  that  well. 

Sit  here  a  little  till  I  feel  you  through 
In  all  my  breath  and  blood  for  some  sweet 
while. 

0  gracious  body  that  mine  arms  have  had, 
And  hair  my  face  has  felt  on  it  !  grave  eyes 
And   low  thick  lids  that  keep  since  years 

agone 

in  the  blue  sweet  of  each  particular  vein 
Some  special  print  of  me  !  I  am  right  glad 
That  I  must  never  feel  a  bitterer  thing 
Than   your    soft   curl'd-up    shoulder   and 

amorous  arms 
From  this  time  forth  ;  nothing  can  hap  to 

me 
Less  good  than  this  for  all  my  whole  life 

through. 

1  would  not  have  some  new  pain  after  this 
Come  spoil  the  savor.    O,  your  round  bird's 

throat, 
More  soft  than  sleep  or  singing  ;  your  calm 

cheeks, 
Turu'd  bright,  turn'd  wan  with  kisses  hard 

and  hot  ; 
The  beautiful  color  of1  your  deep   curv'd 

hands, 
Made  of  a  red  rose  that  had  changed  to . 

white  ; 

That  mouth  mine  own  holds  half  the  sweet- 
ness of, 
Yea,  my  heart  holds  the   sweetness  of  it, 

whence 

My  life  began  in  me  ;  mine  that  ends  here 
Because   you   have  no  mercy,  —  nay,  you 

know 
You  never  could   have   mercy.      My  fair 

love, 
Kiss  me   again,   God   loves   you    not  the 

less ; 
Why  should  one  woman  have  all  goodly 

things  ? 
You  have  all  beauty  ;    let  mean  women's 

lips 
Be  pitiful  and  speak  truth  :  they  will  not 

be 
Such  perfect    things   as   yours.      Be  not 

asham'd 
That  hands  not  made  like  these  that  snare 

men's  souls 
Should  do  men  good,  give  alms,  relieve 

men's  pain  ; 


You  have  the  better,  being  more  fair  than 

they, 
They  are  half  foul,  being  rather  good  than 

fair  ; 
You   are   quite  fair  :   to   be  quite  fair  is 

best. 
Why,  two  nights  hence  I  dream'd  that  1 

could  see 
In   through    your    bosom   under   the   left 

flower, 
And   there   was   a  round,  hollow,   and   at 

heart 

A  little  red  snake  sitting,  without  spot, 
That  bit  —  like  this,  and  suck'd  up  sweet 

—  like  this, 

And  curl'd  its  lithe  light  body  right  and  left, . 
And  quiver'd  like  a  woman  in  act  to  love. 
Then  there  was  some  low  flutter'd  talk  i' 

the  lips, 
Faint  sound  of  soft  fierce  words  caressing 

them  — 
Like  a  fair  woman's  when   her  love  gets 

way. 

Ah,  your  old  kiss  —  I  know  the  ways  of  it  : 
Let  the  lips  cling  a  little.  Take  them  off, 
And  speak  some  word,  or  I  go  mad  with 

love. 
Queen.    Will  you  not  have  my  chaplain 

come  to  you  ? 
Chast.     Some  better  thing  of  yours- — 

some  handkerchief, 
Some  fringe  of  scarf  to  make  confession 

to— 
You   had  some  book  about  you  that  fell 

out  — 

Queen.     A  little  written  book  of  Eon- 
sard's  rhymes, 

His  gift,  I  wear  in  there  for  love  of  him  — 
See,  here  between  our  feet. 

Chast.  Ay,  my  old  lord's  — 

The  sweet  chief  poet,  my  dear  friend  long 

since  ? 
Give  me  the  book.     Lo  you,  this  verse  of 

his  : 

With  coming  lilies  in  late  April  came 
Her  body,  fashioned  whiter  for  their  shame  ; 
And  roses,  touch'd  with   blood  since  Adon 

bled,  _ 

From  her  fair  color  fll'd  their  lips  with  red : 
A  goodly  praise  :  I  could  not  praise  you  so. 
I  read  that  while  your  marriage-feast  went 

on. 
Leave  me  this  book,  I  pray  you :  I  would 

read 
The  hymn  of  death  here  over  ere  I  die  ; 


424 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


I  shall  know  soon  how  much  he  knew  of 

death 
When   that   was   written.       One   thing   I 

know  now, 

I  shall  not  die  with  half  a  heart  at  least, 
Nor  shift  my  face,  nor  weep  my  fault  alive, 
Nor  swear  if  I  might   live  and  do  new 

deeds 

I  would  do  better.    Let  me  keep  the  book. 
Queen.  Yea,  keep  it  :  as  would  God  you 

had  kept  your  life 
Out  of  mine  eyes  and  hands.     I  am  wrung 

to  the  heart : 

This  hour  feels  dry  and  bitter  in  my  mouth 
As  if  its  sorrow  were  my  body's  food 
More    than   my  soul's.      There    are  bad 

thoughts  in  me  — 

Most  bitter  fancies  biting  me  like  birds 
That  tear  each  other.    Suppose  you  need 

not  die  ? 
Chast.     You  know  I  cannot  live  for  two 

hours  more. 
Our  fate  was  made  thus  ere  our  days  were 

made  : 
Will   you  fight   fortune   for   so    small  a 

grief  ? 

But  for  one  thing  I  were  full  fain  of  death. 
Queen.  What  thing  is  that  ? 
Chast.         None  need  to  name  the  thing. 
Why,  what   can   death   do  with  me  fit  to 

fear? 

For  if  I  sleep  I  shall  not  weep  awake  ; 
Or  if   their   saying   be   true  of   things  to 

come, 
Though  hell  be  sharp,  in  the  worst   ache 

of  it 

I  shall  be  eas'd  so  God  will  give  me  back 
Sometimes   one   golden   gracious  sight  of 

you  — 
The  aureole  woven  flowerlike  through  your 

hair, 

And  in  your  lips  the  little  laugh  as  red 
&s  when  it  came  upon  a  kiss  and  ceas'd, 
Touching  my  mouth. 

Queen.  As  I  do  now,  this  way, 

With  my  heart  after  :  would  I  could  shed 

tears, 

Tears  should  not  fail  when  the  heart  shud- 
ders so. 
But  your  bad  thought  ? 

Chast.         Well,  such  a  thought  as  this  : 
It  may  be,  long  time  after  I  am  dead, 
For  all  you  are,  you  may  see  bitter  days  ; 
God  may  forget  you  or  be  wroth  with  you  : 
Then  shall  you  lack  a  little  help  of  me, 


And  I  shall  feel  your  sorrow  touching  you, 
A  happy  sorrow,  though  I  may  not  touch  : 
I  that  would  fain  be  turn'd  to  flesh  again, 
Fain  get  back  life  to  give  up  life  for  you, 
To  shed  my  blood  for  help,  that  long  ago 
You  shed  and  were  not  holpen  :  and  your 

heart 
Will  ache  for  help  and  comfort,  yea,  for 

love, 
And  find  less  love  than   mine  —  for  I  do 

think 

You  never  will  be  lov'd  thus  in  your  life. 
Queen.     It  may  be  man  will  never  love 

me  more  ; 

For  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  love  man  twice. 
Chast.     I  know  not :  men  must  love  you 

in  life's  spite, 

;For  you  will  always  kill  them  ;  man  by  man 
Your  lips  will  bite  them  dead  ;  yea,  though 

you  would, 
You  shall  not  spare  one  ;  all  will  die  of 

you; 

I  cannot  tell  what  love  shall  do  with  these, 
But  I  for  all  my  love  shall  have  no  might 
To  help  you  more,  mine  arms  and  hands 

no  power 
To  fasten  on  you  more.     This  cleaves  my 

heart, 
That   they  shall   never  touch  your   body 

more. 
But  for  your  grief  —  you  will  not  have  to 

grieve  ; 

For  being  in  such  poor  eyes  so  beautiful 
It  must  needs  be  as  God  is  more  than  I 
So  much  more  love  he  hath  of  you  than 

mine  ; 

Yea,  God  shall  not  be  bitter  with  my  love, 
Seeing  she  is  so  sweet. 

Queen.  Ah,  my  sweet  fool, 

Think  you  when  God  will  ruin  me  for  sin 
My  face  of  color  shall  prevail  so  much 
With  him,  so  soften  the  tooth'd  iron's  edge 
To  save  my  throat  a  scar  ?    Nay,  I  am  sure 
I  shall  die  somehow  sadly. 

Chast.  This  is  pure  grief  ; 

The  shadow  of  your  pity  for  my  death, 
Mere  foolishness  of  pity  :  all  sweet  moods 
Throw  out  such  little  shadows  of  them- 
selves, 
Leave  such  light  fears  behind.     You,  die 

like  me  ? 
Stretch  your  throat  out  that  I  may  kiss  all 

round 
Where  mine  shall  be  cut  through  :  suppose 

my  mouth 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


425 


The  axe-edge  to  bite  so  sweet  a  throat  in 

twain 

With  bitter  iron,  should  not  it  turn  soft 
As  lip  is  soft  to  lip  ? 

Queen.  I  am  quite  sure 

I  shall  die  sadly  some  day,  Chastelard  ; 
I  am  quite  certain. 

Chast.  Do  not  think  such  things  ; 

Lest  all  my  next  world's  memories  of  you 

be 
As  heavy  as  this  thought. 

Queen.  I  will  not  grieve  you  ; 

Forgive  me  that   my  thoughts  were   sick 

with  grief. 

What  can  I  do  to  give  you  ease  at  heart  ? 
Shall  I  kiss  now  ?     I  pray  you  have  no 

fear 
But  that  I  love  you. 

Chast.  Turn  your  face  to  me  ; 

I  do  not  grudge  your  face  this   death  of 

mine  ; 

It  is  too  fair  —  by  God,  you  are  too  fair. 
What  noise  is  that  ? 

Queen.    Can  the  hour  be  through  so  soon  ? 
I  bade  them  give  me  but  a  little  hour. 
Ah  !  I  do  love  you  !    such  brief  space  for 

love  ! 
I  am  yours  all  through,  do  all  your  will 

with  me  ; 

What  if  we  lay  and  let  them  take  us  fast, 
Lips  grasping  lips.     I  dare  do  anything. 
Chast.     Show  better  cheer  :  let  no  man 

see  you  maz'd  ; 
Make  haste  and  kiss  me  ;  cover  up  your 

throat, 

Lest  one  see  tumbled  lace  and  prate  of  it. 
Enter  the  guard. 

FROM  "BOTHWELL" 

JOHN   KNOX'S   INDICTMENT   OF   THE 

QUEEN 

GOD  ye  hear  not,  how  shall  ye  hear  me  ? 
Or  if  your  eyes  be  seal'd  to  know  not  her, 
If  she  be  fit  to  live  or  no,  can  I 
With  words  unseal  them  ?    None  so  young 

of  you 

But  hath  long  life  enough  to  understand 
And  reason  to  record  what  he  hath  seen 
Of  hers  and  of  God's  dealings  mutually 
Since  she  came  in.  Then  was  her  spirit 

made  soft, 
Her  words  as  oil,  and  with  her  amorous 

face 


She  caught  men's  eyes  to  turn  them  where 

she  would, 
And  with  the  strong  sound  of  her  name  of 

queen 
Made  their  necks  bend  ;  that  even  of  God's 

own  men 
There  were  that  bade  refuse  her  not  her 

will, 

Deny  not  her,  fair  woman  and  great  queen, 
Her   natural   freedom   born,  to  give  God 

praise 
What    way   she    would,   and    pray   what 

prayers  ;  though  these 
Be  as  they  were,  to  God  abominable 
And  venomous  to  men's  souls.      So  came 

there  back 

The  cursed  thing  cast  forth  of  us,  and  so 
Out  of  her  fair  face  and  imperious  eyes 
Lighten'd  the  light  whereby  men  walk  in 

hell. 

And  I  that  sole  stood  out  and  bade  not  let 
The  lightning  of  this  curse  come  down  on 

us 

And  fly  with  feet  as  fire  on  all  winds  blown 
To  burn  men's  eyes  out  that  beheld  God's 

face, 
That  being  long  blind  but  now  gat  sight, 

and  saw 
And  prais'd  him  seeing  —  I  that  then  spake 

and  said, 

Ten  thousand  men  here  landed  of  our  foes 
Were  not  so  fearful  to  me  on  her  side 
As  one  mass  said  in  Scotland  —  that  with- 
stood 
The  man  to  his  face  I  lov'd,  her  father's 

son, 
Then    master'd    by   the  pity  of   her,  and 

made 
Through  that  good  mind  not  good  —  who 

then  but  I 
Was  tax'd  of  wrongful  will,  and  for  hard 

heart 
Miscall'd  of  men  ?     And  now,  sirs,  if  her 

prayer 

Were  just  and  reasonable,  and  unjust  I 
That  bade  shut  ears  against  it  —  if  the  mass 
Hath  brought  forth  innocent  fruit,  and  in 

this  land 

Wherein  she  came  to  stablish  it  again 
Hath  stablish'd  peace  with  honor  —  if  in 

her 
It  hath  been  found  no  seed  of  shame,  and 

she 
That  lov'd  and  serv'd  it  seem  now  in  men's 

sight 


426 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


No    hateful    thing    nor    fearful  —  if  she 

stand 

Such  a  queen  proven  as  should  prove  hon- 
orable 

The  rule  of  women,  and  in  her  that  thing 
Be  shown  forth  good  that  was  call'd  evil 

of  me, 
Blest  and  not  curst  —  then  have  I  sinn'd, 

and  they 
That  would  have  cross'd  me  would  have 

cross'd  not  God  : 
Whereof  now  judge  ye.    Hath  she  brought 

with  her 

Peace,  or  a  sword  ?  and  since  her  incoming 
Hath  the  land  sat  iu  quiet,  and  the  men 
Seen  rest  but  for  one  year  ?  or  came  not  in 
Behind  her  feet,  right  at  her  back,  and 

shone 

Above  her  crown'd  head  as  a  fierier  crown, 
Death,  and  about  her  as  a  raiment  wrapt 
Ruin  ?  and  where  her  foot  was  ever  turn'd 
Or  her  right  hand  was  pointed,  hath  there 

fallen 

No  fire,  no  cry  burst  forth  of  war,  no  sound 
As  of  a  blast  blown  of  an  host  of  men 
For  summons  of  destruction  ?     Hath  God 

shown 
For  sign  she  had  found  grace  in  his  sight, 

and  we 
For  her  sake  favor,  while  she  hath  reign'd 

on  us, 
One  hour  of  good,  one  week  of  rest,  one 

day? 

Or  hath  he  sent  not  for  an  opposite  sign 
Dissensions,   wars,   rumors    of    wars,  and 

change, 
Flight  and    return    of  men,   terror   with 

power, 
Triumph  with  trembling  ? 

God  is  not  mock'd  ;  and  ye  shall  surely 

know 
What  men  were  these,  and  what  man  he 

that  spake 
The  things  I  speak  now  prophesying,  and 

said 
That  if  ye  spare  to  shed  her  blood  for 

shame, 

For  fear  or  pity  of  her  great  name  or  face, 
God  shall  require  of  you  the  innocent  blood 
Shed  for  her  fair  face'  sake,  and  from  your 

hands 
Wring  the  price  forth  of  her  bloodguilti- 

ness. 
Nay,  for  ye  know  it,  nor  have  I  need  again 


To  bring  it  in  your  mind  if  God  ere  now 
Have   borne  me  witness  ;  in  that  dreary 

day 
When  men's  hearts  fail'd  them  for  pure 

grief  and  fear 

To  see  the  tyranny  that  was,  and  rule 
Of  this  queen's  mother,  where  was  no  light 

left 

But  of  the  fires  wherein  his  servants  died, 
I  bade  those  lords  that  clave  in  heart  to 

God 
And  were   perplex'd  with   trembling   and 

with  tears 
Lift  up  their  hearts,  and  fear  not  ;  and 

they  heard 
What  some  now  hear  no  more,  the  word  I 

spake 
Who  have  been  with  them,  as  their  own 

souls  know, 
In  their   most   extreme  danger  ;   Cowper 

Moor, 

Saint   Johnston,  and   the   Crags  of   Edin- 
burgh, 
Are  recent  in  my  heart  ;  yea,  let  these 

know, 
That  dark  and  dolorous  night  wherein  all 

they 
With  shame  and  fear  were  driven  forth  of 

this  town 

Is  yet  within  my  mind  ;  and  God  forbid 
That  ever  I  forget  it.     What,  I  say, 
Was  then  my  exhortation,  and  what  word 
Of  all  God  ever  promis'd  by  my  mouth 
Is  fallen  in  vain,  they  live  to  testify 
Of  whom  not  one  that  then  was  doom'd  to 

death 

Is  perish'd  in  that  danger  ;  and  their  foes, 
How  many  of  these  hath  God  before  their 

eyes 
Plague-stricken  with  destruction !    lo  the 

thanks 

They  render  him,  now  to  betray  his  cause 
Put  in  their  hands  to  stablish  ;   even  that 

God's 
That  kept  them  all  the  darkness  through 

to  see 
Light,  and  the  way  that  some  now  see  no 

more, 

But  are  gone  after  light  of  the  fen's  fire 
And  walk  askant  in  slippery  ways  ;  but  ye 
Know  if  God's  hand  have   ever  when  I 

spake 

Writ  liar  upon  me,  or  with  adverse  proof 
Turn'd  my  free  speech  to  shame  ;  for  in 

my  lips 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


427 


Ha  put   a   word,  and    knowledge   in  my 

heart, 
When  I  was   fast  bound  of  his  enemies' 

hands 

An  oarsman  on  their  galleys,  and  beheld 
From  off  the  sea  whereon  I  sat  in  chains 
The  walls  wherein   I  knew   that  I  there 

bound 
Should  one  day  witness  of  him  ;  and  this 

pledge 
Hath  God  redeem'd  not  ?      Nay  then,  in 

God's  name, 

If  that  false  word  fell  unfulfill'd  of  mine, 
Heed  ye   not   now  nor   hear   me  when   I 

say 
That  for  this'woman's  sake  shall  God  cut 

off 
The  hand  that  spares  her  as  the  hand  that 

shields, 
And   make  their  memory  who   take   part 

with  her 
As  theirs  who  stood  for  Baal  against  the 

Lord 
With  Ahab's  daughter  ;  for  her  reign  and 

end 

Shall  be  like  Athaliah's,  as  her  birth 
Was  from  the  womb  of  Jezebel,  that  slew 
The  prophets,  and  made  foul  with   blood 

and  fire 
The   same   land's  face  that  now  her  seed 

makes  foul 
With  whoredoms  and  with  witchcrafts  ;  yet 

they  say 

Peace,  where  is  no  peace,  while  the  adul- 
terous blood 
Feeds  yet  with  life  and  sin  the  murderous 

heart 
That  hath  brought  forth  a  wonder  to  the 

world 

And  to  all  time  a  terror  ;  and  this  blood 
The  hands  are  clean  that  shed,  and  they 

that  spare 
In  God's  just   sight    spotted   as   foul   as 

Cain's. 

If  then  this  guilt  shall  cleave  to  you  or  no, 
And   to  your   children's   children,  for  her 

sake, 
Choose  ye  ;  for  God  needs  no  man  that  is 

loth 
To  serve  him,   and  no  word  but  his  own 

work 
To  bind  and  loose  their  hearts  who  hear 

and  see 
Such  things  as  speak  what  I  lack  words  to 

say. 


SAPPHO 

.  FROM    "  ON   THE   CLIFFS  " 

LOVE'S  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  joy  of 

song, 
Song's  priestess,  mad  with  joy  and  pain  of 

love, 
Name   above    all    names   that    are   lights 

above, 
We   have   lov'd,  prais'd,  pitied,  crown' d, 

and  done  thee  wrong, 

O  thou  past  praise  and  pity  ;  thou  the  sole 
Utterly  deathless,  perfect  only  and  whole 
Immortal,  body  and  soul. 
For  over  all  whom  time  hath  overpast 
The  shadow  of  sleep  inexorable  is  cast, 
The  implacable   sweet  shadow  of  perfect 

sleep 
That  gives  not  back  what  life  gives  death 

to  keep  ; 
Yea,  all  that  liv'd  and  lov'd  and  sang  and 

sinn'd 
Are  all  borne  down  death's  cold,  sweet, 

soundless  wind 
That  blows  all  night  and  knows  not  whom 

its  breath, 

Darkling,  may  touch  to  death  : 
But  one  that  wind  hath  touch'd  and  changed 

not,  —  one 
Whose   body  and  soul  are   parcel  of  the 

sun  ; 
One  that  earth's  fire  could  burn  not,  nor 

the  sea 
Quench  ;  nor  might  human  doom  take  hold 

on  thee  ; 
All  praise,  all  pity,  all  dreams  have  done 

thee  wrong, 
All    love,    with    eyes    love-blinded    from 

above  ; 
Song's  priestess,  mad  with  joy  and  pain  of 

love, 
Love's  priestess,  mad  with  pain  and  joy  of 

song. 

Hast  thou  none  other  answer  then  for  me 

Than  the  air  may  have  of  thee, 

Or  the  earth's   warm  woodlands  girdling 

with  green  girth 

Thy  secret,  sleepless,  burning  life  on  earth, 
Or  even  the  sea  that  once,  being  woman 

crown'd 
And  girt  with  fire  and  glory  of  anguish 

round, 
Thou  wert  so  fain  to  seek  to,  fain  to  crave 


428 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


If  she  would  hear  thee  and  save 

And  give  thee  comfort  of  thy  great  green 

grave  ? 
Because  I  have  known  thee   always  who 

thou  art, 
Thou   kiiowest,  have   known    thee   to  thy 

heart's  own  heart* 
Nor  ever  have  given  light  ear  to  storied 

song 
That  did  thy  sweet  name  sweet  unwitting 

wrong, 
Nor  ever  have  call'd  thee  nor  would  call 

for  shame, 

Thou  knowest,  but  inly  by  thine  only  name, 
Sappho  —  because  I  have  known  thee  and 

lov'd,  hast  thou 
None  other  answer  now  ? 
As  brother  and  sister  were  we,  child  and 

bird, 

Since  thy  first  Lesbian  word 
Flam'd  on  me,  and  I  knew  not  whence  I 

knew, 
This  was  the  song  that  struck  my  whole 

soul  through, 
Pierced  my  keen  spirit  of  sense  with  edge 

more  keen, 
Even  when  I  knew  not,  —  even  ere  sooth 

was  seen, — 
When  thou  wast  but  the  tawny  sweet  wing'd 

thing 
Whose  cry  was  but  of  spring. 


HOPE   AND    FEAR 

BENEATH   the   shadow   of    dawn's    aerial 

cope, 

With  eyes  enkindled  as  the  sun's  own  sphere, 
Hope  from  the  front  of  youth  in  godlike 

cheer 
Looks   Godward,   past  the   shades    where 

blind  men  grope 
Round   the   dark   door   that   prayers   nor 

dreams  can  ope, 

And  makes  for  joy  the  very  darkness  dear 
That  gives  her  wide  wings  play;  nor  dreams 

that  fear 
At  noon  may  rise  and  pierce  the  heart  of 

hope. 
Then,  when  the  soul  leaves  off  to  dream 

and  yearn, 

May  truth  first  purge  her  eyesight  to  dis- 
cern 
What  once   being  known  leaves  time  no 

power  to  appal  ; 


Till  youth  at  last,  ere  yet  youth  be  not, 

learn 
The  kind  wise  word  that  falls  from  years 

that  fall  — 
"  Hope  thou  not  much,  and  fear  thou  not 

at  all." 


ON    THE    DEATHS    OF   THOMAS 
CARLYLE  AND  GEORGE  ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 

Pass,  follow'd  one  with  love  and  each  with 
wonder : 

The  stormy  sophist  with  his  mouth  of  thun- 
der, 

Cloth'd  with  loud  words  and  mantled  in 
the  might 

Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night  ; 

And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night 
in  sunder, 

Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  there- 
under, 

And  found  in  love  of  loving  -  kindness 
light. 

Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of  fire 

Still  following  Righteousness  with  deep 
desire 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  her  and 
above, 

Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by  ;  but  more 
sweet 

Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earthly 
feet, 

The  light  of  little  children,  and  their  love. 


HERTHA 

I  AM  that  which  began  ; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll  ; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man  ; 
I  am  equal  and  Whole  ; 
God  changes,  and  man,  and   the  form   of 
them  bodily  ;  I  am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 

Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 
Or  the  flesh-color'd  fruit  of  my  branches, 
I  was,  and  thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 
First  drifted  and  swam  ; 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


429 


Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 
Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild-beast 
and  bird  ;  before  God  was,  I  am. 

Beside  or  above  me 

Nought  is  there  to  go  ; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 

Unknow  me  or  know, 

I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves  ;  I 
am  stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  miss'd 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kiss'd 

And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 
The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker, 
the  soul  and  the  body  that  is. 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate  ; 
That  which  caresses 

With  hands  uncreate 

My   limbs   unbegotten    that    measure   the 
length  of  the  measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now, 

Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
"  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high  ?  " 
I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him ; 
find  thou  but  thyself,  thou  art  I. 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 

The  plough-cloven  clod 
And   the   ploughshare    drawn    tho- 
rough, 

The  germ  and  the  sod, 
The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the 
sower,  the  dust  which  is  God. 

Hast  thou   known  how  I  fashion'd 

thee, 

Child,  underground  ? 
Fire  that  impassion'd  thee, 

Iron  that  bound, 

Dim  changes  of   water,  what  thing  of  all 
these  hast  thou  known  of  or  found  ? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  hast  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise, 
By  what   force  of  what   stuff   thou  wast 
shapen,  and  shown  on  my  breast  to  the 
skies  ? 


Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it 

thee, 

Knowledge  of  me  ? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee  ? 

Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea  ? 
Hast  thou  commun'd  in  spirit  with  night  ? 
have  the  winds  taken  counsel  with  thee  ? 

Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 

What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 
Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the 
sun  and  the  mountains  and  thou  ? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 

Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but 
only  thy  mother  alone. 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made  ; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 

Allur'd  or  afraid, 

Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion, 
she  stirs  not  for  all  that  have  pray'd. 

A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  night  ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the   strength  of   thy 
spirit,  and  live  out  thy  life  as  the  light. 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith, 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 

Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 
Green  leaves  of  thy  labor,  white  flowers  of 
thy  thought,  and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee  ; 
The  free  life  of  thy  living, 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free  ; 
Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to 
slave,  shalt  thou  give  thee  to  me. 

O  children  of  banishment, 

Souls  overcast, 
Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 

Alway  to  last, 

Ye  would  know  not  the  sun  overshining  the 
shadows  and  stars  overpast. 


43° 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


I  that  saw  where  ye  trod 

The  dim  paths  of  the  night 
Set  the  shadow  call'd  God 

In  your  skies  to  give  light  ; 
But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and 
the  shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited, 

•  The  life-tree  am  I  ; 

In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my 
leaves  :  ye  shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 

That  scourge  and  forgive, 
They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark 
that  falls  off :  they  shall  die  and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark  : 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 

Make  day  of  the  dark. 
And  are  worshipp'd  as  suns  till  the  sunrise 
shall  tread  out  their  fires  as  a  spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 
The  live  roots  of  the  tree, 
In  my  darkness  the  thunder 
Makes  utterance  of  me  ; 
In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other 
ye  hear  the  waves  sound  of  the  sea. 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  my  foliage  rings  round  him  and  rustles, 
and  branches  are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease, 
The  war-wind  that  rages, 

The  spring-wind  of  peace, 
Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses, 
ere  one  of  my  blossoms  increase. 

All  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 

And  stream-riven  heights, 
Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue  and  lan- 
guage of  storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking 
nights  ; 


All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 

Of  time-stricken  lands, 

All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all 

ruins,  drop  through  me  as  sands. 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 

But  only  to  grow, 

Yet  I  fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings 
above  me  or  deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these  ; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 

Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 
Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets 
of  infinite  lands  and  of  seas. 

In  the  spring-color'd  hours . 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 

By  centuries  of  days, 

Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  man- 
hood, shot  out  from  my  spirit  as 
rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 

And  strength  to  my  roots  ; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect 
with  freedom  of  soul  were  my  fruits. 

I  bid  you  but  be  ; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer  ; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air  ; 
That  my  heart  may  be  greater  within  me, 
beholding  the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faith  ye  espouse  ; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs; 
Behold  now  your  Go'd  that  ye  made  you, 
to  feed  him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  ador'd, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 

For  lamp  and  for  sword, 
God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are 
red  with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


43* 


O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me, 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful  ? 

Was  it  hard  to  be  free  ? 
For  behold,  I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and 
of  you  ;  look  forth  now  and  see. 

Lo,  wing'd  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 

For  raiment  and  rod, 

God  trembles  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are 
white  with  the  terror  of  God. 

For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here ; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 

Grown  gray  from  his  fear  ; 
And  bis  hour  taketh  hold  on  him  stricken, 
the  last  of  his  infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him, 

Truth  slays  and  forgives  ; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him, 

This  new  thing  it  gives, 
Even  love,  the  beloved  Republic,  that  feeds 
upon  freedom  and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living, 

Truth  only  is  whole, 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole  ; 
'Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my 
body,  and  seed  of  my  soul. 

One  birth  of  my  bosom  ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye  ; 
One  topmost  blossom 

That  scales  the  sky  ; 

Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is 
made  of  me,  man  that  is  I. 


ETUDE  REALISTE 


A  BABY'S  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink, 

Might  tempt,  should  Heaven  see  meet, 
An  angel's  lips  to  kiss,  we  think, 
A  baby's  feet. 

Like  rose-hued  sea-flowers  toward  the  heat 

They  stretch  and  spread  and  wink 
Their  ten  soft  buds  that  part  and  meet. 


No  flower-bells  that  expand  and  shrink 

Gleam  half  so  heavenly  sweet 
As  shine  on  life's  untrodden  brink 
A  baby's  feet. 

ii 

A  baby's  hands,  like  rosebuds  furl'd, 

Whence  yet  no  leaf  expands, 
Ope  if  you  touch,  though  close  upcurl'd, 
A  baby's  hands. 

Then,  even  as  warriors  grip  their  brands 

When  battle's  bolt  is  hurl'd, 
They  close,  clench'd  hard  like  tightening 
bands. 

No  rosebuds  yet  by  dawn  impearl'd 

Match,  even  in  loveliest  lands, 
The  sweetest  flowers  in  all  the  world  — 
A  baby's  hands. 

in 

A  baby's  eyes,  ere  speech  begin, 
Ere  lips  learn  words  or  sighs, 
Bless  all  things  bright  enough  to  win 
A  baby's  eyes. 

Love,  while  the  sweet  thing  laughs  and  lies, 

And  sleep  flows  out  and  in, 
Lies  perfect  in  them  Paradise. 

Their  glance  might  cast  out  pain  and  sin, 

Their  speech  make  dumb  the  wise, 
By  mute  glad  godhead  felt  within 
A  baby's  eyes. 


THE   ROUNDEL 

A  ROUNDEL  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star- 
bright  sphere, 

With  craft  of  delight  and  with  cunning  of 
sound  unsought, 

That  the  heart  of  the  hearer  may  smile  if 

to  pleasure  his  ear 
A  roundel  is  wrought. 

Its  jewel  of  music  is  carven  of  all  or  of 

aught  — 
Love,  laughter  or  mourning,  remembrance 

of  rapture  or  fear  — 
That  fancy  may  fashion  to  hang  in  the  ear 

of  thought. 


43  2 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


As  a  bird's  quick  song  runs  round,  and  the 

hearts  in  us  hear 
Pause  answer  to  pause,  and  again  the  same 

strain  caught, 
So  moves  the  device  whence,  round  as  a 

pearl  or  tear, 
A  roundel  is  wrought. 


A   FORSAKEN   GARDEN 

IN  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 

highland, 

At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  wind- 
ward and  lee, 
Wall'd    round   with    rocks  as  an  inland 

island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  arid  thorn  encloses 
The  steep,  square  slope  of  the  blossom- 
less  bed 

Where  the  weeds  that    grew  green   from 
the  graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The    fields    fall    southward,   abrupt    and 

broken, 
To  the  low  last  edge  of   the  long  lone 

land. 
If   a   step   should   sound    or   a    word    be 

spoken, 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange 

guest's  hand  ? 
So   long  have   the   gray,  bare  walks   lain 

guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man 

make  way, 

He  shall   find  no  life  but  the   sea-wind's, 
restless 

Night  and  day. 

The  dense,  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 
That   crawls   by  a   track   none   turn  to 

climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years 

have  rifled 
Of  all   but  the  thorns  that  are  touch'd 

not  of  Time. 
The  thorns   he   spares   when   the   rose  is 

taken  ; 
The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the 

plain. 

The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind- 
shaken, 

These  remain. 


Not  a  flower  to  be  press'd  of  the  foot  that 

falls  not  ; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed- 
plots  are  dry  ; 
From   the   thicket  of   thorns    whence  the 

nightingale  calls  not, 
Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  tc 

reply. 

Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 
Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song  ; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One   gaunt   bleak   blossom  of   scentless 

breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 
In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as 

death. 
Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was 

weeping, 

Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 
Whose   eyes  went   seaward   a   hundred 
sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart   handfast  in   heart  as   they  stood, 

"  Look  thither," 
Did  he  whisper  ?    "  Look  forth  from  the 

flowers  to  the  sea  ; 

For  the  foam-flowers  endure  when  the  rose- 
blossoms  wither, 
And  men  that  love   lightly  may  die  — 

but  we  ?  " 
And  the  same  wind   sang  and   the   same 

waves  whiten'd, 
And   or   ever  the   garden's   last   petals 

were  shed, 

In  the  lips   that  had  whisper'd,  the  eyes 
that  had  lighten'd, 
Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  lov'd  their  life  through,  and  then 

went  whither  ? 
And  were  one  to  the  end  —  but  what  end 

who  knows  ? 

Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 
As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the 

rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead 

to  love  them  ? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above 
them 

Or  the  wave. 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE 


433 


All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields 

and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has   been 

hovers 
In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to 

be. 
Not  a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons 

hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh 

now  or  weep, 

When,  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping 
and  laughter, 
We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  forever  ; 
Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change 

end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall 

rise  up  never, 
Who  have  left  nought  living  to  ravage 

and  rend. 
Earth,    stones,    and    thorns   of    the   wild 

ground  growing, 
While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these 

shall  be  ; 

Till   a  last  wind's   breath   upon   all  these 
blowing 

Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff 

crumble, 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs 

drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high 

tides  humble 
The   fields  that  lessen,   the   rocks  that 

shrink, 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things 

falter, 
Stretch'd  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own 

hand  spread, 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange 
altar, 

Death  lies  dead. 


ON  THE   MONUMENT   ERECTED 
TO  MAZZINI  AT  GENOA 

ITALIA,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Mother  divine, 

Of  all  that  serv'd  thee  best  with  sword  or 
pen, 

All  sous  of  thine, 


Thou  knowest  that  here  the  likeness  of  the 

best 

Before  thee  stands  : 
The  head  most  high,  the  heart  found  faith- 

fulest, 
The  purest  hands. 

Above  the  fume  and  foam  of    time  that 
flits, 

The  soul,  we  know, 
Now  sits  on  high  where  Alighiei-i  sits 

With  Angelo. 

Nor   his  own    heavenly  tongue  hath  hea- 
venly speech 
Enough  to  say 
What    this    man    was,    whose    praise    no 

thought  may  reach, 
No  words  can  weigh. 

Since  man's  first  mother  brought  to  mortal 
birth 

Her  first-born  son, 
Such  grace  befell  not  ever  man  on  earth 

As  crowns  this  One. 

Of  God  nor  man  was  ever  this  thing  said  : 

That  he  could  give 

Life  back  to  her  who  gave  him,  that  his 
dead 

Mother  might  live. 

But  this  man  found  his  mother  dead  and 
slain, 

With  fast-seal'd  eyes, 
And  bade  the  dead  rise  up  and  live  again, 

And  she  did  rise  : 

And  all  the  world   was   bright  with   her 

through  him  : 
But  dark  with  strife, 
Like  heaven's  own  sun  that  storming  clouds 

bedim, 
Was  all  his  life. 

Life  and  the  clouds  are  vanish'd  ;  hate  and 
fear 

Have  had  their  span 
Of  time  to  hurt  and  are  not  :  He  is  here 

The  sunlike  man. 

City  superb,  that  hadst  Columbus  first 

For  sovereign  son, 
Be  prouder  that  thy  breast  hath  later  nurst 

This  mightier  One. 


434 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Glory  be  his  forever,  while  this  land 

Lives  and  is  free, 

As  with  controlling  breath  and  sovereign 
hand 

He  bade  her  be. 


CADENCES 

I 
(MINOR) 

THE  ancient  memories  buried  lie, 

And  the  olden  fancies  pass  ; 
The  old  sweet  flower-thoughts  wither  and 

fly, 

And  die  as  the  April  cowslips  die, 
That  scatter  the  bloomy  grass. 

All  dead,  my  dear  !  And  the  flowers  are 
dead, 

And  the  happy  blossoming  spring  ; 
The  winter  comes  with  its  iron  tread, 
The  fields  with  the  dying  sun  are  red, 

And  the  birds  have  ceas'd  to  sing. 

I  trace  the  steps  on  the  wasted  strand 

Of  the  vanish'd  springtime's  feet : 
Wither'd  and  dead  is  our  Fairyland, 
For  Love  and  Death  go  hand  in  hand 
Go  hand  in  hand,  my  sweet ! 

II 
(MAJOR) 

OH,  what  shall  be  the  burden  of  our 
rhyme, 

And  what  shall  be  our  ditty  when  the  blos- 
som 's  on  the  lime  ? 

Our  lips  have  fed  on  winter  and  on  weari- 
ness too  long  : 

We  will  hail  the  royal  summer  with  a 
golden-footed  song  ! 

O  lady  of  my  summer  and  my  spring, 
We  shall  hear  the  blackbird  whistle  and 

the  brown  sweet  throstle  sing, 
And  the  low  clear  noise  of  waters  running 

softly  by  our  feet, 
When  the  sights  and  sounds  of  summer  in 

the  green  clear  fields  are  sweet. 


Earth  shows  to  heaven  the  names  by  thou- 
sands told 

That  crown  her  fame  : 
But  highest  of  all  that  heaven  and  earth 

behold 
Mazzini's  name. 


We  shall  see  the  roses  blowing  in  the 

green, 
The  pink-lipp'd  roses  kissing  in  the  golden 

summer  sheen  ; 
We  shall  see  the  fields  flower  thick  with 

stars  and  bells  of  summer  gold, 
And  the  poppies  burn  out  red  and   sweet 

across  the  corn-crown'd  wold. 

The  time  shall  be  for  pleasure,  not  for 

pain  ; 
There  shall  come  no  ghost  of  grieving  for 

the  past  betwixt  us  twain  ; 
But  in  the  time  of  roses  our  lives  shall  grow 

together, 
And  our  love  be  as  the  love  of  gods  in  the 

blue  Olympic  weather. 


SIBYL 

THIS  is  the  glamour  of  the  world  antique  : 
The  thyme-scents  of  Hymettus  fill  the  air, 
And  in  the  grass  narcissus-cups  are  fair. 
The  full  brook  wanders  through  the  ferns 

to  seek 
The   amber  haunts  of   bees  ;   and   on  the 

peak 
Of  the  soft  hill,  against  the  gold-marged 

sky, 
She  stands,  a  dream  from  out  the  days  gone 

by- 

Entreat   her   not.      Indeed,   she   will    not 

speak ! 
Her  eyes  are  full  of  dreams  ;  and  in  her 

ears 

There  is  the  rustle  of  immortal  wings  ; 
And  ever  and  anon  the  slow  breeze  bears 
The    mystic    murmur   of    the    songs    she 

sings. 
Entreat  her  not :   she  sees  thee  not,  nor 

hears 
Aught  but  the  sights  and  sounds  of  bygone 

springs. 


JOHN  PAYNE 


435 


THORGERDA 

Lo,  what  a  golden  day  it  is  ! 

The  glad  sun  rives  the  sapphire  deeps 
Down  to  the  dim  pearl-floor'd  abyss 

Where,  cold  in  death,  my  lover  sleeps  ; 

Crowns  with  soft  fire  his  sea-drench'd  hair, 
Kisses  with  gold  his  lips  death-pale, 

Lets  down  from  heaven  a  golden  stair, 
Whose  steps  methinks  his  soul  doth  scale. 

This  is  my  treasure.     White  and  sweet, 
He  lies  beneath  my  ardent  eyne, 

With  heart  that  nevermore  shall  beat, 
Nor  lips  press  softly  against  mine. 

How  like  a  dream  it  seems  to  me, 

The  time  when  hand  in  hand  we  went 

By  hill  and  valley,  I  and  he, 
Lost  in  a  trance  of  ravishment  ! 

I  and  my  lover  here  that  lies 
And  sleeps  the  everlasting  sleep, 

We  walk'd  whilere  in  Paradise  ; 

(Can  it  be  true  ?)     Our  souls  drank  deep 

Together  of  Love's  wonder-wine  : 
We  saw  the  golden  days  go  by, 

Unheeding,  for  we  were  divine  ; 
Love  had  advanced  us  to  the  sky. 

And  of  that  time  no  traces  bin, 

Save  the  still  shape  that  once  did  hold 

My  lover's  soul,  that  shone  therein, 
As  wine  laughs  in  a  vase  of  gold. 

Cold,  cold  he  lies,  and  answers  not 
Unto  my  speech  ;  his  mouth  is  cold 

Whose  kiss  to  mine  was  sweet  and  hot 
As  sunshine  to  a  marigold. 

And  yet  his  pallid  lips  I  press  ; 

I  fold  his  neck  in  my  embrace  ; 
I  rain  down  kisses  none  the  less 

Upon  his  unresponsive  face  : 

I  call  on  him  with  all  the  fair 

Flower-names  that  blossom  out  of  love  ; 
I  knit  sea-jewels  in  his  hair  ; 

I  weave  fair  coronals  above 

The  cold,  sweet  silver  of  his  brow  : 

For  this  is  all  of  him  I  have  ; 
Nor  any  Future  more  than  now 

Shall  give  me  back  what  Love  once  gave. 


For  from  Death's  gate  our  lives  divide  ; 

His  was  the  Galilean's  faith  : 
With  those  that  serve  the  Crucified, 

He  shar'd  the  chance  of  Life  and  Death. 

And  so  my  eyes  shall  never  light 
Upon  his  star-soft  eyes  again  ; 

Nor  ever  in  the  day  or  night, 
By  hill  or  valley,  wood  or  plain, 

Our  hands  shall  meet  afresh.     His  voice 
Shall  never  with  its  silver  tone 

The  sadness  of  my  soul  rejoice, 

Nor  his  breast  throb  against  iny  own. 

His  sight  shall  never  unto  me 

Return  whilst  heaven  and  earth  remain  : 
Though  Time  blend  with  Eternity, 

Our  lives  shall  never  meet  again,  — 

Never  by  gray  or  purple  sea, 
Never  again  in  heavens  of  blue, 

Never  in  this  old  earth  —  ah  me  ! 
Never,  ah  never  !  in  the  new. 

For  me,  he  treads  the  windless  ways 
Among  the  thick  star-diamonds, 

Where  in  the  middle  sether  blaze 

The  Golden  City's  pearl  gate-fronds  ; 

Sitteth,  palm-crown'd  and  silver-shod, 
Where  in  strange  dwellings  of  the  skies 

The  Christians  to  their  Woman-God 
Cease  nevermore  from  psalmodies. 

And  I,  I  wait,  with  haggard  eyes 
And  face  grown  awful  for  desire, 

The  coming  of  that  fierce  day's  rise 
When  from  the  cities  of  the  fire 

The  Wolf  shall  come  with  blazing  crest, 
And  many  a  giant  arm'd  for  war  ; 

When  from  the  sanguine-streaming  West, 
Hell-flaming,  speedeth  Naglfar. 

LOVE'S    AUTUMN 

Yes,  love,  the  Spring  shall  come  again, 

But  not  as  once  it  came  : 
Once  more  in  meadow  and  in  lane 

The  daffodils  shall  flame, 
The  cowslips  blow,  but  all  in  vain  ; 

Alike,  yet  not  the  same. 

The  roses  that  we  pluck'd  of  old 
Were  dew'd  with  heart's  delight ; 


436 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


Our  gladness  steep'd  the  primrose-gold 

In  half  its  lovely  light  : 
The  hopes  are  long  since  dead  and  cold 

That  flush'd  the  wind-flowers'  white. 

Oh,  who  shall  give  us  back  our  Spring  ? 

What  spell  can  fill  the  air 
With  all  the  birds  of  painted  wing 

That  sang  for  us  whilere  ? 
What  charm  reclothe  with  blossoming 

Our  lives,  grown  blank  and  bare  ? 

What  sun  can  draw  the  ruddy  bloom 

Back  to  hope's  faded  rose  ? 
What  stir  of  summer  re-illume 

Our  hearts'  wreck'd  garden-close  ? 
What  flowers  can  fill  the  empty  room 

Where  now  the  nightshade  grows  ? 

'T  is  but  the  Autumn's  chilly  sun 
That  mocks  the  glow  of  May  ; 

'Tis  but  the  pallid  bindweeds  run 
Across  our  garden  way, 

Pale  orchids,  scentless  every  one, 
Ghosts  of  the  summer  day. 

Yet,  if  it  must  be  so,  't  is  well  : 
What  part  have  we  in  June  ? 

Our  hearts  have  all  forgot  the  spell 
That  held  the  summer  noon  ; 

We  echo  back  the  cuckoo's  knell, 
And  not  the  linnet's  tune. 

What  shall  we  do  with  roses  now, 
Whose  cheeks  no  more  are  red  ? 

What  violets  should  deck  our  brow, 
Whose  hopes  long  since  are  fled  ? 

Recalling  many  a  wasted  vow 
And  many  a  faith  struck  dead. 

Bring  heath  and  pimpernel  and  rue, 
The  Autumn's  sober  flowers  : 

At  least  their  scent  will  not  renew 
The  thought  of  happy  hours, 

Nor  drag  sad  memory  back  unto 
That  lost  sweet  time  of  ours. 

Faith  is  no  sun  of  summertide, 

Only  the  pale,  calm  light 
That,  when  the  Autumn  clouds  divide, 

Hangs  in  the  watchet  height,  — 
A  lamp,  wherewith  we  may  abide 

The  coming  of  the  night. 


And  yet,  beneath  its  languid  ray, 
The  moorlands  bare  and  dry 

Bethink  them  of  the  summer  day 
And  flower,  far  and  nigh, 

With  fragile  memories  of  the  May, 
Blue  as  the  August  sky. 

These   are   our  flowers  :   they  have   no 
scent 

To  mock  our  waste  desire, 
No  hint  of  bygone  ravishment 

To  stir  the  faded  fire  : 
The  very  soul  of  sad  content 

Dwells  in  each  azure  spire. 

I  have  no  violets  :  you  laid 

Your  blight  upon  them  all  : 
It  was  your  hand,  alas  !  that  made 

My  roses  fade  and  fall, 
Your  breath  my  lilies  that  forbade 

To  come  at  Summer's  call. 

Yet  take  these  scentless  flowrers  and  pale, 

The  last  of  all  my  year  : 
Be  tender  to  them  ;  they  are  frail  : 

But  if  thou  hold  them  dear, 
I  '11  not  their  brighter  kin  bewail, 

That  now  lie  cold  and  sere. 


SONGS'    END 

THE  chime  of  a  bell  of  gold 

That  flutters  across  the  air, 
The  sound  of  a  singing  of  old, 
The  end  of  a  tale  that  is  told, 
Of  a  melody  strange  and  fair, 
Of  a  joy  that  has  grown  despair  : 

For  the  things  that  have  been  for  me 
I  shall  never  have  them  again  ; 

The  skies  and  the  purple  sea, 

And  day  like  a  melody, 

And  night  like  a  silver  rain 
Of  stars  on  forest  and  plain. 

They  are  shut,  the  gates  of  the  day ; 
The  night  has  fallen  on  me  : 

My  life  is  a  lightless  way  ; 

I  sing  yet,  while  as  I  may  ! 

Some  day  I  shall  cease,  maybe : 
I  shall  live  on  yet,  you  will  see. 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


437 


POOR   WITHERED   ROSE 

POOR  wither'd  rose  and  dry, 

Skeleton  of  a  rose, 
Risen  to  testify 

To  love's  sad  close  : 

Treasur'd  for  love's  sweet  sake, 

That  of  joy  past 
Thou  mightst  again  awake 

Memory  at  last. 

Yet  is  thy  perfume  sweet ; 

Thy  petals  red 
Yet  tell  of  summer  heat, 

And  the  gay  bed  : 

Yet,  yet  recall  the  glow 

Of  the  gazing  sun, 
When  at  thy  bush  we  two 

Join'd  hands  in  one. 

But,  rose,  thou  hast  not  seen, 

Thou  hast  not  wept, 
The  change  that  pass'd  between 

Whilst  thou  hast  slept. 

To  me  thou  seemest  yet 
The  dead  dream's  thrall  ; 

While  I  live  and  forget 
Dream,  truth,  and  all. 

Thou  art  more  fresh  than  I, 
Rose,  sweet  and  red  : 

Salt  on  my  pale  cheeks  lie 
The  tears  I  shed. 


I  WILL  not  let  thee  go. 
Ends  all  our  mouth-long  love  in  this  ? 
Can  it  be  sutnm'd  up  so, 
Quit  in  a  single  kiss  ? 
I  will  not  let  thee  go. 

I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
If  thy   words'  breath  could  scare   thy 

deeds, 

As  the  soft  south  can  blow 
And  toss  the  feather'd  seeds. 
Then  might  I  let  thee  go. 


I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Had  not  the  great  sun  seen,  I  might ; 
Or  were  he  reckon'd  slow 
To  bring  the  false  to  light, 
Then  might  I  let  thee  go. 

I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
The  stars  that  crowd  the  summer  skies 

Have  watch'd  us  so  below 

With  all  their  million  eyes, 

I  dare  not  let  thee  go. 

» 

I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Have  we  not  chid  the  changeful  moon, 

Now  rising  late,  and  now 

Because  she  set  too  soon, 

And. shall  I  let  thee  go  ? 

I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
Have  not  the  young  flowers  been  content, 
Pluck'd  ere  their  buds  could  blow, 
To  seal  our  sacrament  ? 
I  cannot  let  thee  go. 

I  will  not  let  thee  go. 
I  hold  tbee  by  too  many  bands  : 
Thou  sayest  farewell,  and,  lo  ! 
I  have  thee  by  the  hands, 
And  will  not  let  thee  go. 


UPON   THE   SHORE 

WHO  has  not  walk'd  upon  the  shore, 
And  who  does  not  the  morning  know, 
The  day  the  angry  gale  is  o'er, 
The  hour  the  wind  has  ceas'd  to  blow  ? 

The  horses  of  the  strong  southwest 
Are  pastur'd  round  his  tropic  tent, 
Careless  how  long  the  ocean's  breast 
Sob  on  and  sigh  for  passion  spent. 

The  frighten'd  birds,  that  fled  inland 
To  house  in  rock  and  tower  and  tree, 
Are  gathering  on  the  peaceful  strand, 
To  tempt  again  the  sunny  sea  ; 

Whereon  the  timid  ships  steal  out 
And  laugh  to  find  their  foe  asleep, 
That  lately  scatter'd  them  about, 
And  drave  them  to  the  fold  like  sheep 


438 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


The  snow-white  clouds  he  northward  chas'd 
Break  into  phalanx,  line,  and  band  : 
All  one  way  to  the  south  they  haste, 
The  south,  their  pleasant  fatherland. 

From  distant  hills  their  shadows  creep, 
Arrive  in  turn  and  mount  the  lea, 
And  flit  across  the  downs,  and  leap 
Sheer  off  the  cliff  upon  the  sea  ; 

And  sail  and  sail  far  out  of  sight. 
And  still  I  watch  their  fleecy  trains, 
That,  piling  all  the  south  with  light, 
Dapple  in  France  the  fertile  plains. 


A   PASSER-BY 

WHITHER,  O  splendid  ship,  thy  white  sails 

crowding, 
Leaning  across  the  bosom  of  the  urgent 

West, 
That  fearest  nor  sea  rising,  nor  sky  cloud- 

>g, 
Whither  away,  fair  rover,  and  what  thy 

quest  ? 
Ah  !  soon,  when  Winter  has  all  our  vales 

opprest, 
When  skies  are  cold  and  misty,  and  hail  is 

hurling, 

Wilt  thou  glide  on  the  blue  Pacific,  or  rest 
In  a  summer  haven  asleep,  thy  white  sails 

furling. 

I  there  before  thee,  in  the  country  so  well 

thou  knowest, 
Already  arriv'd,  am  inhaling  the  odorous 

air  ; 
I  watch  thee  enter  unerringly  where  thou 

goest, 
And  anchor  queen  of  the  strange  shipping 

there, 
Thy  sails  for  awnings  spread,  thy  masts 

bare  ; 
Nor  is  aught,  from  the  foaming  reef  to  the 

snow-capp'd,  grandest 
Peak  that  is  over  the  feathery  palms, 

more  fair 

Than  thou,  so  upright,  so  stately,  and  still 
thou  standest. 

A.nd  yet,  O   splendid  ship,  unhail'd    and 

nameless, 

I  know  not  if,  aiming  a  fancy,  I  rightly 
divine 


That  thou  hast  a  purpose  joyful,  a  courage 

blameless, 
Thy  port  assur'd  in  a  happier  land  than 

mine. 
But  for  all  I  have  given  thee,  beauty 

enough  is  thine, 

As  thou,  aslant  with  trim  tackle  and  shroud- 
ing* 
From  the  proud  nostril  curve  of  a  prow's 

line 

In  the  offing  scatterest  foam,  thy  white  sails 
crowding. 

ELEGY 

I  HAVE  lov'd  flowers  that  fade, 
Within  whose  magic  tents 
Rich  hues  have  marriage  made 
With  sweet  unmemoried  scents  : 
A  honeymoon  delight,  — 
A  joy  of  love  at  sight, 
That  ages  in  an  hour  :  — 
My  song  be  like  a  flower  ! 

I  have  lov'd  airs  that  die 
Before  their  charm  is  writ 
Along  a  liquid  sky 
Trembling  to  welcome  it. 
Notes,  that  with  pulse  of  fire 
Proclaim  the  spirit's  desire, 
Then  die,  and  are  nowhere  :  — 
My  song  be  like  an  air  ! 

Die,  song,  die  like  a  breath, 
And  wither  as  a  bloom  : 
Fear  not  a  flowery  death, 
Dread  not  an  airy  tomb  ! 
Fly  with  delight,  fly  hence  ! 
'T  was  thine  love's  tender  sense 
To  feast  ;  now  on  thy  bier 
Beauty  shall  shed  a  tear. 


THOTJ  didst  delight  my  eyes  : 
Yet  who  am  I  ?  nor  first 
Nor  last  nor  best,  that  durst 
Once  dream  of  thee  for  prize  ; 
Nor  this  the  only  time 
Thou  shalt  set  love  to  rhyme. 

Thou  didst  delight  my  ear  : 
Ah  !  little  praise  ;  thy  voice 
Makes  other  hearts  rejoice 


ROBERT   BRIDGES 


439 


Makes  all  ears  glad  that  hear  ; 
And  short  my  joy  :  but  yet, 
O  song,  do  not  forget. 

For  what  wert  thou  to  me  ? 
How  shall  I  say  ?     The  moon, 
That  pour'd  her  midnight  noon 
Upon  his  wrecking  sea  ;  — 
A  sail,  that  for  a  day 
Has  cheer'd  the  castaway. 


AWAKE,   MY   HEART! 

AWAKE,   my  heart,   to    be  lov'd,   awake, 

awake ! 
The  darkness  silvers  away,  the  morn  doth 

break, 

It  leaps  in  the  sky  :  unrisen  lustres  slake 
The   o'ertaken   moon.      Awake,   O   heart, 

awake  ! 

She,  too,  that  loveth  awaketh  and  hopes  for 

thee  ; 
Her  eyes  already  have  sped  the  shades  that 

flee, 
Already  they  watch  the  path  thy  feet  shall 

take  : 
Awake,  O  heart  to  be  lov'd,  awake,  awake  ! 

And  if  thou  tarry  from  her,  —  if  this  could 
be, — 

She  cometh  herself,  O  heart,  to  be  lov'd,  to 
thee  ; 

For  thee  would  unasham'd  herself  for- 
sake : 

Awake  to  be  lov'd,  my  heart,  awake, 
awake  ! 

Awake !     The  land  is  scatter'd  with  light, 

and  see, 
Uncanopied  sleep  is  flying  from  field  and 

tree ; 
And  blossoming  boughs  of  April  in  laughter 

shake  : 
Awake,  O  heart,  to  be  lov'd,  awake,  awake ! 

Lo,  all  things  wake  and  tarry  and  look  for 
thee  : 

She  looketh  and  saith,  "  O  sun,  now  bring 
him  to  me. 

Come,  more  ador'd,  O  ador'd,  for  his  com- 
ing's sake, 

And  awake,  my  heart,  to  be  lov'd,  awake, 
awake  1  " 


O   YOUTH   WHOSE   HOPE   IS 
HIGH 

O  YOUTH  whose  hope  is  high, 
Who  doth  to  truth  aspire, 
Whether  thou  live  or  die, 
O  look  not  back  nor  tire. 

Thou  that  art  bold  to  fly 
Through  tempest,  flood  and  fire, 
Nor  dost  not  shrink  to  try 
Thy  heart  in  torments  dire,  — 

If  thou  canst  Death  defy, 
If  thy  Faith  is  entire, 
Press  onward,  for  thine  eye 
Shall  see  thy  heart's  desire. 

Beauty  and  love  are  nigh, 
And  with  their  deathless  quire 
Soon  shall  thine  eager  cry 
Be  number'd  and  expire. 


SO   SWEET   LOVE   SEEMED 

So  sweet  love  seem'd  that  April  morn, 
When  first  we  kiss'd  beside  the  thorn, 
So  strangely  sweet,  it  was  not  strange 
We  thought  that  love  could  never  change. 

But  I  can  tell  —  let  truth  be  told  — 
That  love  will  change  in  growing  old  ; 
Though  day  by  day  is  nought  to  see, 
So  delicate  his  motions  be. 

And  in  the  end  't  will  come  to  pass 
Quite  to  forget  what  once  he  was, 
Nor  even  in  fancy  to  recall 
The  pleasure  that  was  all  in  all. 

His  little  spring,  that  sweet  we  found, 
So  deep  in  summer  floods  is  drown'd, 
I  wonder,  bath'd  in  joy  complete, 
How  love  so  young  could  be  so  sweet. 


ASIAN    BIRDS 

IN  this  May-month,  by  grace 
of  heaven,  things  shoot  apace. 

The  waiting  multitude 

of  fair  boughs  in  the  wood,  — 

How  few  days  have  array 'd 
their  beauty  in  green  shade  ! 


440 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


What  have  I  seen  or  heard  ? 

it  was  the  yellow  bird 
Saiig  in  the  tree  :  he  flew 

a  flame  against  the  blue  ; 
Upward  he  flash'd.     Again, 

hark  !  't  is  his  heavenly  strain, 

Another !     Hush  !     Behold, 
many,  like  boats  of  gold, 

From  waving  branch  to  branch 
their  airy  bodies  launch. 

What  music  is  like  this, 
where  each  note  is  a  kiss  ? 

The  golden  willows  lift 

their  boughs  the  sun  to  sift : 

Their  silken  streamers  screen 
the  sky  with  veils  of  green, 


To  make  a  cage  of  song, 

where  feather'd  lovers  throng. 

How  the  delicious  notes 

come  bubbling  from  their  throats  ! 
Full  and  sweet,  how  they  are  shed 

like  round  pearls  from  a  thread  '. 
The  motions  of  their  flight 

are  wishes  of  delight. 

Hearing  their  song,  I  trace 

the  secret  of  their  grace. 
Ah,  could  I  this  fair  time 

so  fashion  into  rhyme, 
The  poem  that  I  sing 

would  be  the  voice  of  spring. 


THE  FAIR  MAID  AND  THE  SUN 

O  soxs  of  men,  that  toil,  and  love  with 
tears  ! 

Know  ye,  O  sons  of  men,  the  maid  who 

dwells 

Between  the  two  seas  at  the  Dardanelles  ? 
Her  face  hath  charm'd  away  the  change 

of  years, 
And  all  the  world  is  filled  with  her  spells. 

No  task  is  hers  forever,  but  the  play 
Of  setting  forth  her  beauty  day  by  day  : 
There  in  your  midst,  O  sons  of  men  that 

toil, 
She  laughs  the  long  eternity  away. 

The  chains   about    her    neck  are    many- 

pearl'd, 
Rare  gems  are  those  round  which  her  hair 

is  curl'd  ; 
She  hath  all  flesh  for  captive,  and  for 

spoil, 
The  fruit  of  all  the  labor  of  the  world. 

She  getteth  up  and  maketh  herself  bare, 
And    letteth    down    the    wonder    of    her 

hair 

Before  the  sun  ;  the  heavy  golden  locks 
Fall  in  the  hollow  of  her  shoulders  fair. 


She    taketh  from  the   lands,  as   she  may 

please, 
All  jewels,  and  all  corals  from  the  seas  ; 

She  layeth  them  in  rows  upon  the  rocks  ; 
Laugheth,  and   bringeth   fairer  ones   than 

these. 

Five  are  the  goodly  necklaces  that  deck 
The   place   between   her   bosom   and    her 

neck  ; 
She  passeth   many  a  bracelet    o'er  her 

hands ; 
And,  seeing  she  is  white  without  a  fleck, 

And  seeing  she  is  fairer  than  the  tide, 
And  of  a  beauty  no  man  can  abide, 

Proudly  she  standeth  as  a  goddess  stands, 
And  mocketh  at  the  sun  and  sea  for  pride  : 

And  to  the  sea  she  saith  :  "  O  silver  sea, 
Fair  art  thou,  but  thou  art  not  fair  like  me  ; 
Open  thy  white-tooth 'd,  dimpled  mouths 

and  try  ; 
They  laugh  not  the  soft  way  I  laugh  at 

thee." 

And  to  the  sun  she  saith  :  "  O  golden  sun, 
Fierce  is  thy  burning  till  the  day  is  done  ! 
But  thou   shalt    burn  mere   grass  and 

leaves,  while  I 
Shall  burn  the  hearts  of  men  up  every  one." 


ARTHUR   O'SHAUGHNESSY 


441 


O   fair    and    dreadful    is    the   maid  who 

dwells 

Between  the  two  seas  at  the  Dardanelles,  — 
As   fair   and   dread    as   in   the   ancient 

years ; 
And  still  the  world  is  filled  with  her  spells. 

O  sons  of  men,  that  toil,  and  love  with  tears  ! 


HAS    SUMMER   COME   WITHOUT 
THE    ROSE? 

HAS  summer  come  without  the  rose, 

Or  left  the  bird  behind  ? 
Is  the  blue  changed  above  thee, 

O  world  !  or  am  I  blind  ? 
Will  you  change  every  flower  that  grows, 

Or  only  change  this  spot, 
Where  she  who  said,  I  love  thee, 

Now  says,  I  love  thee  not  ? 

The  skies  seem'd  true  above  thee, 

The  rose  true  on  the  tree  ; 
The  bird  seem'd  true  the  summer  through, 

But  all  prov'd  false  to  me. 
World,  is  there  one  good  thing  in  you, 

Life,  love,  or  death- — or  what  ? 
Since  lips  that  sang,  I  love  thee, 

Have  said,  I  love  thee  not  ? 

I  think  the  sun's  kiss  will  scarce  fall 

Into  one  flower's  gold  cup  ; 
I  think  the  bird  will  miss  me, 

And  give  the  summer  up. 
O  sweet  place,  desolate  in  tall 

Wild  grass,  have  you  forgot 
How  her  lips  lov'd  to  kiss  me, 

Now  that  they  kiss  me  not  ? 

Be  false  or  fair  above  me  ; 

Come  back  with  any  face, 
Summer  !  —  do  I  care  what  you  do  ? 

You  cannot  change  one  place,  — 
The  grass,  the  leaves,  the  earth,  the  dew, 

The  grave  I  make  the  spot,  — 
Here,  where  she  used  to  love  me, 

Here,  where  she  loves  me  not. 


AT   HER   GRAVE 

I  HAVE  stay'd  too  long  from  your  grave,  it 

seems  ; 
Now  I  come  back  again. 


Love,  have  you  stirr'd  down  there  in  your 

dreams 

Through  the  sunny  days  or  the  rain  ? 
Ah,  no  !  th?  same  peace  :  you  are  happy 

so  ; 
And  your  flowers,  how  do  they  grow  ? 

Your   rose   has   a   bud  :    is   it   meant   for 

me? 

Ah,  little  red  gift  put  up 
So  silently,  like  a  child's  present,  you  see 

Lying  beside  your  cup  ! 
And  geranium  leaves,  —  I  will  take,  if  I 

may, 
Two  or  three  to  carry  away. 

I  went  not  far.     In  yon  world  of  ours 
Grow  ugly  weeds.     With  my  heart, 
Thinking    of    you   and    your   garden    of 

flowers, 

I  went  to  do  my  part, 
Plucking  up,  where  they  poison  the  human 

wheat, 
The  weeds  of  cant  and  deceit. 

'T  is  a  hideous  thing  I  have  seen,  and  the 
toil 

Begets  few  thanks,  much  hate  ; 
And  the  new  crop  only  will  find  the  soil 

Less  foul,  —  for  the  old  't  is  toe  late. 
I  come  back  to  the  only  spot  I  know 
Where  a  weed  will  never  grow. 


SILENCES 

'T  is  a  world  of  silences.     I  gave  a  cry 
In  the  first  sorrow  my  heart  could  not 

withstand  ; 

I  saw  men  pause,  and  listen,  and  look  sad, 
As  though  no  answer  in  their  hearts  they 

had  ; 
Some  turu'd  away,  some  came  and  took 

my  hand, 
For  all  reply. 

I  stood  beside  a  grave.     Years  had  pass'd 

by; 
Sick    with  uuanswer'd   life  I  turn'd   to 

death, 
And  whisper'd    all    my   question  to   the 

grave, 

And  watch'd  the  flowers  desolately  wave, 
And  grass  stir  on  it  with  a  fitful  breath. 
For  all  reply. 


442 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


I  rais'd  my   eyes   to   heaven  ;  my  prayer 

went  high 

Into  the  luminous  mystery  of  the  blue  ; 
My  thought    of    God  was  purer   than  a 

flame, 

And  God  it  seem'd  a  little  nearer  came, 
Then  pass'd  ;  and  greater  still  the  silence 

grew, 
For  all  reply. 

But  you  !     If  I  can  speak  before  I  die, 
I  spoke  to  you  with  all  my  soul,  and 

when 

I  look  at  you  't  is  still  my  soul  you  see. 
Oh,  in  your  heart  was  there  no  word  for 

me? 
All  would   have  answer'd  had  you  an- 

swer'd  then 
With  even  a  sigh. 


IF   SHE   BUT    KNEW 

IF  she  but  knew  that  I  am  weeping 

Still  for  her  sake, 
That  love  and  sorrow  grow  with  keeping 

Till  they  must  break, 
My  heart  that  breaking  will  adore  her, 

Be  hers  and  die  ; 
If  she  might  hear  me  once  implore  her, 

Would  she  not  sigh  ? 

If  she  but  knew  that  it  would  save  me 

Her  voice  to  hear, 
Saying  she  pitied  me,  forgave  me, 

Must  she  forbear  ? 
If  she  were  told  that  I  was  dying, 

Would  she  be  dumb  ? 
Could  she  content  herself  with  sighing  ? 

Would  she  not  come  ? 


A  GREETING 

RISE  up,  my  song  !  stretch  forth  thy  wings 

and  fly 

With  no  delaying,  over  shore  and  deep  ! 
Be  with   my  lady  when   she  wakes  from 

sleep  ; 
'Touch    her   with    kisses    softly    on    each 

eye; 
-And  say,  before   she  puts   her  dreaming 

by: 

"  Within  the  palaces  of  slumber  keep 
One  little  niche  wherein  sometimes  to  weep 
For  one  who  vainly  toils  till  he  shall  die  !  " 
Yet  say  again,  a  sweeter  thing  than  this  : 
"  His  life  is  wasted  by  his  love  for  thee." 
Then,  looking  o'er  the  fields  of  memory, 
She  '11  find  perchance,  o'ergrown  with  grief 

and  bliss, 

Some  flower  of  recollection,  pale  and  fair, 
That  she,  through  pity,  for  a  day  may  wear. 


A  VAIN    WISH 

I  WOULD  not,  could  I,  make   thy  life  as 

mine  ; 

Only  I  would,  if  such  a  thing  might  be, 
Thou  shouldst  not,  love,  forget  me  utterly  ; 
Yea,  when  the  sultry  stars  of  summer  shine 


On   dreaming  woods,  where   nightingales 

repine, 
I  would  that  at  such  times  should  come  to 

thee 
Some  thought  not  quite  unmix'd  with  pain, 

of  me,  — 

Some  little  sorrow  for  a  soul's  decline. 
Yea,  too,  I  would  that  through  thy  brightest 

times, 
Like    the    sweet    burden   of   remember'd 

rhymes, 
That  gentle  sadness  should  be  with  thee, 

dear  ; 
And  when  the  gates  of  sleep  are  on  thee 

shut, 
I   would    not,    even    then,   it    should    be 

mute, 
But  murmur,  shell-like,  at  thy  spirit's  ear. 


LOVE'S    MUSIC 

LOVE  held  a  harp  between  his  hands,  and, 

lo! 
The  master  hand,  upon    the  harp-strings 

laid 
By  way   of  prelude,   such   a   sweet   tune 

play'd 
As  made  the  heart  with  happy  tears  o'er- 

flow  ; 


PHILIP   BOURKE  MARSTON 


443 


Then  sad  and  wild  did  that  strange  music 

grow, 
And,  —  like  the  wail  of  woods  by  storm 

gusts  sway'd, 
While  yet   the  awful  thunder's   wrath  is 

stay'd, 
And  earth  lies  faint  beneath  the  coming 

blow,  — 

Still  wilder  wax'd  the  tune  ;  until  at  length 
The  strong  strings,  strain'd  by  sudden  stress 

and  sharp 

Of  that  musician's  hand  intolerable, 
And  jarr'd  by  sweep  of  unrelenting  strength, 
Sunder'd,  and  all  the  broken  music  fell. 
Such  was  Love's  music,  —  lo,  the  shatter'd 

harp  ! 

THE   ROSE   AND   THE   WIND 

DAWN 

The  Rose 

WHEN,  think  you,  comes  the  Wind, 
The    Wind    that    kisses    me    and    is    so 

kind? 
Lo,   how   the   Lily   sleeps !    her  sleep    is 

light  ; 
Would   I   were   like   the    Lily,  pale   and 

white  ! 
Will  the  Wind  come  ? 

The  Beech 
Perchance  for  you  too  soon. 

The  Rose 

If  not,  how  could  I  live  until  the  noon  ? 
What,  think   you,  Beech-tree,   makes   the 

Wind  delay  ? 
Why  comes  he  not  at  breaking  of  the  day  ? 

The  Beech 
Hush,  child,  and,  like  the  Lily,  go  to  sleep. 

The  Rose 
fou  know  I  cannot. 

The  Beech 

Nay,  then,  do  not  weep. 

(After  a  pause) 

Your  lover  comes,  be  happy  now,  O  Rose ! 
He  softly  through   my  bending   branches 

goes. 
Soon  he  shall  come,  and  you  shall  feel  his 


The  Rose 
Already  my  flush'd  heart  grows  faint  with 

bliss  ; 
Love,  I  have  long'd  for  you  through  all  the 

night. 

The  Wind 
And  I  to  kiss  your  petals  warm  and  bright. 

The  Rose 
Laugh  round  me,  Love,  and  kiss  me  ;  it  is 

well. 
Nay,  have  no  fear,  the  Lily  will  not  tell. 

MORNING 

The  Rose 
'Twas  dawn  when  first  you  came  ;  and 

now  the  sun 
Shines  brightly  and  the  dews  of  dawn  are 

done. 

'T  is  well  you  take  me  so  in  your  embrace  ; 
But  lay  me  back  again  into  my  place, 
For  I  am  worn,  perhaps  with  bliss  extreme. 

The  Wind 

Nay,  you  must  wake,  Love,  from  this  child- 
ish dream. 

The  Rose 
'T  is  you,  Love,  who  seem  changed  ;  your 

laugh  is  loud, 
And  'neath  your  stormy  kiss  my  head  is 

bow'd. 
O  Love,  O  Wind,  a  space  will  you  not  spare  ? 

The  Wind 
Not  while  your  petals  are  so  soft  and  fair. 

The  Rose 
My  buds  are  blind  with  leaves,  they  cannot 

see,  — 
0  Love,  O  Wind,  will  you  not  pity  me  ? 

EVENING 

The  Beech 

O  Wind,  a  word  with  you  before  you  pass  ; 
What  did  you  to  the  Rose  that  on  the  grass 
Broken  she  lies  and  pale,  who  lov'd  you  so  ? 

The  Wind 

Roses  must  live  and  love,  and  winds  must 
blow. 


444 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


HOW  MY  SONG  OF  HER  BEGAN 

GOD  made  my  lady  lovely  to  behold,  — 
Above  the  painter's  dream  he  set  her  face, 
And  wrought  her  body  in  divinest  grace  ; 
He  touch'd  the  brown  hair  with  a  sense  of 

gold  ; 

And  in  the  perfect  form  He  did  enfold 
What  was  alone  as  perfect,  the  sweet  heart  ; 
Knowledge  most  rare  to  her  He  did  impart  ; 
And   fill'd  with  love  and  worship  all  her 

days. 
And  then  God  thought  Him  how  it  would 

be  well 

To  give  her  music  ;  and  to  Love  He  said, 
"  Bring  thou  some  minstrel  now  that  he 

may  tell 
How  fair  and  sweet  a  thing  My  hands  have 

made." 
Then  at  Love's  call  I  came,  bow'd  down 

my  head, 
And  at  His  will  my  lyre  grew  audible. 


THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD  OF 
BONCHURCH 

THE  churchyard  leans  to  the   sea  with  its 

dead, — 

It  leans  to  the  sea  with  its  dead  so  long. 
Do  they  hear,   I   wonder,  the  first  bird's 

song, 

When  the  winter's  anger  is  all  but  fled  ; 
The  high,  sweet  voice  of  the  west  wind, 
The  fall  of  the  warm,  soft  rain, 
When  the  second  month  of  the  year 
Puts  heart  in  the  earth  again  ? 

Do   they  hear,    through    the    glad    April 

weather, 

The  green  grasses  waving  above  them  ? 
Do  they  think  there  are  none  left  to  love 

them, 

They  have  lain  for  so  long  there  together  ? 
Do  they  hear  the  note  of  the  cuckoo, 
The  cry  of  gulls  on  the  wing, 
The  laughter  of  winds  and  waters, 
The  feet  of  the  dancing  Spring  ? 

Do  they  feel  the    old   land   slipping   sea- 
ward, — 

The  old  land,  with  its  hills  and  its  graves,  — 
As  they  gradually  slide  to  the  waves, 
With  the  wind  blowing  on  them  from  lea- 
ward  ? 


Do  they  know  of  the  change  that  awaits 

them,  — 

The  sepulchre  vast  and  strange  ? 
Do  they  long  for  the  days  to  go  over, 
And  bring  that  miraculous  change  ? 

Or  love  they  their  night  with  no  moonlight. 
With  no  starlight,  no  dawn  to  its  gloom  ? 
Do  they  sigh  :  "  'Neath  the  snow,  or  the 

bloom 
Of  the   wild   things  that  wave  from  our 

night, 

We  are  warm,  through  winter  and  summer  ; 
Wre  hear  the  winds  rave,  and  we  say  : 
'  The  storm-wind  blows  over  our  heads, 
But  we  here  are  out  of  its  way '  "  ? 

Do  they  mumble  low,  one  to  another, 
With  a  sense  that  the  waters  that  thunder 
Shall  ingather  them  all,  draw  them  under  : 
"  Ah,  how  long  to  our  moving,  my  brother  ? 
How  long  shall  we  quietly  rest  here, 
In  graves  of  darkness  and  ease  ? 
The  waves,  even  now,  may  be  on  us, 
To  draw  us  down  under  the  seas  !  " 

Do  they  think  't  will  be  cold  when  the  waters 
That  they  love  not,  that  neither  can  love 

them, 

Shall  eternally  thunder  above  them  ? 
Have  they  dread  of  the  sea's  shining  daugh- 
ters, 

That  people  the  bright  sea-regions 
And  play  with  the  young  sea-kings  ? 
Have  they  dread  of  their  cold  embraces, 
And  dread  of  all  strange  sea-things  ? 

But  their  dread  or  their  joy,  —  it  is  bootless  : 
They  shall  pass  from  the  breast  of  their 

mother  ; 

They  shall  lie  low,  dead  brother  by  brother, 
In  a  place  that  is  radiant  and  fruitless  ; 
And  the  folk  that  sail  over  their  heads 
In  violent  weather 

Shall  come  down  to  them,  haply,  and  all 
They  shall  lie  there  together. 

GARDEN    FAIRIES 

KEEN  was  the  air,  the  sky  was  very  light, 
Soft  with  shed  snow  my  garden  was,  and 

white, 
And,  walking  there,  I  heard  upon  the  night 

Sudden  sound  of  little  voices, 

Just  the  prettiest  of  noises. 


PHILIP   BOURKE   MARSTON 


445 


It   was  the    strangest,   subtlest,   sweetest 

sound  : 
It   seein'd    above    me,    seem'd    upon    the 

ground, 
Then  swiftly  seem'd   to  eddy   round  and 

round, 

Till  I  said  :  "  To-night  the  air  is 
Surely  full  of  garden  fairies." 

And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  I  grew  aware 
That  little,  shining  presences  were  there,  — 
White  shapes  and  red  shapes  danced  upon 

the  air  ; 

Then  a  peal  of  silver  laughter, 
And  such  singing  followed  after 

As  none  of  you,  I  think,  have  ever  heard. 
More  soft  it  was  than  call  of  any  bird, 
Note  after  note,  exquisitely  deferr'd, 
Soft  as  dew-drops  when  they  settle 
In  a  fair  flower's  open  petal. 

"What   are   these   fairies?"  to  myself  I 

said  ; 

For  answer,  then,  as  from  a  garden's  bed, 
On  the  cold  air  a  sudden  scent  was  shed,  — 
Scent  of  lilies,  scent  of  roses, 
Scent  of  Summer's  sweetest  posies. 

And  said  a  small,  sweet  voice  within  my  ear  : 
"  We  flowers,  that  sleep  through  winter, 

once  a  year 

Are  by  our  flower  queen  sent  to  visit  here, 
That  this  fact  may  duly  flout  us,  — 
Gardens  can  look  fair  without  us. 

"  A  very  little  time  we  have  to  play, 
Then  must  we  go,  oh,  very  far  away, 
And  sleep  again  for  many  a  long,  long  day, 
Till  the  glad  birds  sing  above  us, 
And  the  warm  sun  comes  to  love  us. 

"  Hark  what  the  roses  sing  now,  as  we  go  ; " 

Then  very  sweet  and  soft,  and  very  low,  — 

A  dream  of  sound  across  the  garden  snow,  — 

Came  the  chime  of  roses  singing 

To  the  lily-bell's  faint  ringing. 

ROSES'    SONG 

"  Softly  sinking  through  the  snow, 
To  our  winter  rest  we  go, 
Underneath  the  snow  to  house 
Till  the  birds  be  in  the  boughs, 
And  the  boughs  with  leaves  be  fair, 
And  the  sun  shine  everywhere. 


"  Softly  through  the  snow  we  settle, 

Little  snow-drops  press  each  petal. 

Oh,  the  snow  is  kind  and  white,  — 

Soft  it  is,  and  very  light  ; 

Soon  we  shall  be  where  no  light  is, 

But  where  sleep  is,  and  where  night  is,  — 

Sleep  of  every  wind  unshaken, 

Till  our  Summer  bids  us  waken." 

Then  toward  some  far-off  goal  that  singing 

drew  ; 

Then  altogether  ceas'd  ;  more  steely  blue 
The  blue  stars  shone  ;  but  in  my  spirit  grew 
Hope  of  Summer,  love  of  Roses, 
Certainty  that  Sorrow  closes. 

LOVE   AND    MUSIC 

I  LISTEN'D  to  the  music  broad  and  deep  : 

I  heard  the  tenor  in  an  ecstasy 

Touch  the  sweet,  distant  goal  ;  I  heard  the 
cry 

Of  prayer  and  passion  ;  and  I  heard  the 
sweep 

Of  mighty  wings,  that  in  their  waving  keep 

The  music  that  the  spheres  make  end- 
lessly ;  — 

Then  my  cheek  shiver'd,  tears  made  blind 
mine  eye  ; 

As  flame  to  flame  I  felt  the  quick  blood  leap, 

And,  through  the  tides  and  moonlit  winds 
of  sound, 

To  me  love's  passionate  voice  grew  audible. 

Again  I  felt  thy  heart  to  my  heart  bound, 

Then  silence  on  the  viols  and  voices  fell  ; 

But,  like  the  still,  small  voice  within  a  shell, 

I  heard  Love  thrilling  through  the  void 
profound. 

NO    DEATH 

I  SAW  in  dreams  a  mighty  multitude,  — 
Gather'd,  they  seem'd,  from  North,  South, 

East,  and  West, 

And  in  their  looks  such  horror  was  exprest 
As  must  forever  words  of  mine  elude. 
As  if  transfix'd  by  grief,  some  silent  stood, 
While  others  wildly  smote  upon  the  breast, 
And   cried   out   fearfully,    "  No    rest,    no 

rest  !  " 

Some  fled,  as  if  by  shapes  unseen  pursued. 
Some  laugh'd  insanely.     Others,  shrieking, 

said  : 
"  To  think  but  yesterday  we  might  have 

died  ; 


446 


POETS   OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 


For  then  God  had  not  thundered,  '  Death 

is  dead  ! ' ' 
They  gash'd  themselves  till  they  with  blood 

were  red. 
"  Answer,  O  God  ;  take  back  this  curse  !  " 

they  cried, 
But  "Death  is  dead,"  was  all  the  voice 

replied. 


AT    THE   LAST 

BECAUSE  the  shadows  deepen'd  verily,  — 

Because  the  end  of  all  seem'd  near,  for- 
sooth, — 

Her  gracious  spirit,  ever  quick  to  ruth, 

Had  pity  on  her  bond-slave,  even  on  me. 

She  came  in  with  the  twilight  noiselessly, 

Fair  as  a  rose,  immaculate  as  Truth  ; 

She  lean'd  above  my  wreck'd  and  wasted 
youth  ; 

I  felt  her  presence,  which  I  could  not  see. 

"God  keep  you,  my  poor  friend,"  I  heard 
her  say  ; 

And  then  she  kiss'd  my  dry,  hot  lips  and 
eyes. 

Kiss  ihou  the  next  kiss,  quiet  Death,  I  pray  ; 

Be  instant  on  this  hour,  and  so  surprise 

My  spirit  while  the  vision  seems  to  stay  ; 

Take  thou  the  heart  with  the  heart's  Para- 
dise. 

HER    PITY 

THIS  is  the  room  to  which  she  came  that 

day, — 
Came  when  the  dusk  was  falling  cold  and 

gray, — 
Came  with  soft  step,  in  delicate  array, 

And  sat  beside  me  in  the  firelight  there  ; 
And,  like  a  rose  of  perfume  rich  and  rare, 
Thrill'd  with  her  sweetness  the  environing 
air. 

We  heard  the  grind  of  traffic  in  the  street, 
The  clamorous  calls,  the  beat  of  passing 

feet, 
The  wail  of  bells  that  in  the  twilight  meet. 

Then  I  knelt  down,  and  dar'd  to  touch  her 

hand, — 

Those  slender  fingers,  and  the  shining  band 
Of   happy  gold  wherewith   her  wrist  was 

spann'd. 


Her  radiant  beauty  made  my  heart  re- 
joice ; 

And  then  she  spoke,  and  her  low,  pitying 
voice 

Was  like  the  soft,  pathetic,  tender  noise 

Of   winds  that    come    before    a    summer 

rain  : 
Once  leap'd  the  blood  in  every  clamorous 

vein  ; 
Once  leap'd  my  heart,  then,  dumb,  stood 

still  again. 


AFTER   SUMMER 

WE  '11  not  weep  for  summer  over, — 

No,  not  we  : 
Strew  above  his  head  the  clover,  — 

Let  him  be ! 

Other  eyes  may  weep  his  dying, 
Shed  their  tears 

There  upon  him,  where  he 's  lying 
With  his  peers. 

Unto  some  of  them  he  proff er'd 
Gifts  most  sweet  ; 

For  our  hearts  a  grave  he  offer'd,  — 
Was  this  meet  ? 

All  our  fond  hopes,  praying,  perish'd 
In  his  wrath,  — 

All  the  lovely  dreams  we  cherish'd 
Strew'd  his  path. 

Shall  we  in  our  tombs,  I  wonder, 

Far  apart, 
Sunder'd  wide  as  seas  can  sunder 

Heart  from  heart, 

Dream  at  all  of  all  the  sorrows 
That  were  ours,  — 

Bitter  nights,  more  bitter  morrows  \ 
Poison-flowers 

Summer  gather'd,  as  in  madness, 

Saying,  "See, 
These  are  yours,  in  place  of  gladness, 

Gifts  from  me  "  ? 

Nay,  the  rest  that  will  be  ours 

Is  supreme, 
And  below  the  poppy  flowers 

Steals  no  dream. 


PHILIP   BOURKE  MARSTON 


447 


TO   THE   SPIRIT   OF   POETRY 

ALL  things  are  changed  save  thee,  —  thou 

art  the  same, 
Only  perchance  more  dear,  as  one  friend 

grows 
When  other  friends  have  turn'd  away.  Who 

knows 
With  what  strange  joy  thou  didst  my  life 

inflame 

Before  I  took  upon  my  lips  the  name 
Which  vows   me  to   thy  service  ?     Come 

thou  close  ; 

For  to  thy  feet  to-day  my  being  flows, 
As  when,  a  boy,  for  comforting  I  came. 
Thou,   whose    transfiguring    touch    makes 

speech  divine,  — 
Whose  eyes  are  deeper  than  deep  seas  or 

skies,  — 
Warm  with  thy  fire  this  heart,  these  lips  of 

mine, 
Lighten  the  darkness  with   thy   luminous 

eyes, 

Till  all  the  quivering  air  about  me  shine, 
And  I  have  gain'd  my  spirit's  Paradise. 

IF  YOU    WERE    HERE 

A   SONG   IN   WINTER 

O  LOVE,  if  you  were  here 

This  dreary,  weary  day,  — 
If  your  lips,  warm  and  dear, 

Found  some  sweet  word  to  say,  — 
Then  hardly  would  seem  drear 

These  skies  of  wintry  gray. 

But  you  are  far  away,  — 

How  far  from  me,  my  dear  ! 

What  cheer  can  warm  the  day  ? 
My  heart  is  chill  with  fear, 

Pierced  through  with  swift  dismay  ; 
A  thought  has  turn'd  Life  sere  : 

If  you  from  far  away 

Should  come  not  back,  my  dear  ; 
If  I  no  more  might  lay 

My  hand  on  yours,  nor  hear 
That  voice,  now  sad,  now  gay, 

Caress  my  listening  ear  ; 

If  you  from  far  away 

Should  come  no  more,  my  dear,  — 
Then  with  what  dire  dismay 

Year  joined  to  hostile  year 


Would  frown,  if  I  should  stay 
Where  memories  mock  and  jeer  ! 

But  I  would  come  away 

To  dwell  with  you,  my  dear  ; 

Through  unknown  worlds  to  stray,  - 
Or  sleep  ;  nor  hope,  nor  fear, 

Nor  dream  beneath  the  clay 
Of  all  our  days  that  were. 


AT   LAST 

REST  here,  at  last, 
The  long  way  overpast ; 
Rest  here,  at  home,  — 

Thy  race  is  run, 

Thy  dreary  journey  done, 
Thy  last  peak  clomb. 

'Twixt  birth  and  death, 

What  days  of  bitter  breath 

Were  thine,  alas  ! 
Thy  sbul  had  sight 
To  see  by  day,  by  night, 

Strange  phantoms  pass. 

Thy  restless  heart 

In  few  glad  things  had  part, 

But  dwelt  alone, 

And  night  and  day, 

In  the  old  way, 
Made  the  old  moan. 

But  here  is  rest 

For  aching  brain  and  breast, 

Deep  rest,  complete, 

And  nevermore, 

Heart-weary  and  foot-sore, 
Shall  stray  thy  feet,  — 

Thy  feet  that  went, 

With  such  long  discontent, 

Their  wonted  beat 

About  thy  room, 

With  its  deep-seated  gloom, 
Or  through  the  street. 

Death  gives  them  ease  ; 
Death  gives  thy  spirit  peace  ; 
Death  lulls  thee,  quite. 

One  thing  alone 

Death  leaves  thee  of  thine  own, 
Thy  starless  night. 


448 


TOM   TAYLOR 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 

(See  also:  ROBERT  BROWNING,  BUCHANAN,  LADY  CURRIE,  LORD  DE  TABLEY, 
SWINBURNE,  LORD  TENNYSON) 


€om  Captor 


FROM  "THE  FOOL'S  REVENGE" 

THE  JESTER   AND    HIS   DAUGHTER 

SCENE.  —  A  room  in  the  hous.e  of  BERTUCCIO. 
[BERTUCCIO  stands  for  a  moment  fondly  con- 
templating FIORDELISA.    He  steps  forward. 
Ber.     My  own  ! 

Fio.  [Turning  suddenly,  and  flinging 
herself  into  his  arms  with  a  cry  of 
joy.~\  My  father  ! 

Ber.     [Embracing  her  tenderly.]    Closer, 

closer  yet  ! 

Let  me  feel  those  soft  arms  about  my  neck, 
This  dear  cheek  on  my  heart  !     No  —  do 

not  stir  — 
It  does  me  so    much   good !      I  am   so 

happy  — 
These  minutes  are  worth  years  ! 

Fio.  My  own  dear  father  ! 

Ber.     Let  me  look  at  thee,  darling  — 

why,  thou  growest 
More  and  more  beautiful  !    Thou  'rt  happy 

here  ? 
Hast  all   that   thou  desirest  —  thy  lute  — 

thy  flowers  ? 

She  loves  her  poor  old  father  ?  —  Bless- 
ings on  thee  — 
I  know  thou  dost  —  but  tell  me  so. 

Fio.  I  love  you  — 

I  love  you  very  much  !     I  am  so  happy 
When  you   are   with    me.     Why   do   you 

come  so  late, 
And  go  so  soon  ?     Why  not  stay  always 

here  ? 
Ber.    Why  not  !     Why  not !     Oh,  if  I 

could  !     To  live 
Where  there  's  no  mocking,  and  no  being 

mock'd  : 
No    laughter,    but    what 's    innocent ;    no 

mirth 

That  leaves  an  after  bitterness  like  gall. 
Fio.     Now,  you  are  sad  !     There  's  that 
black  ugly  cloud 


Upon  your  brow  —  you  promis'd,  the  last 
time, 

It  never  should  come  when  we  were   to- 
gether. 

You  know,  when  you  're  sad,  I  'm  sad  too. 
Ber.  My  bird  ! 

I  'in    selfish   even    with    thee  —  let   dark 
thoughts  come, 

That  thy  sweet  voice  may  chase  them,  as 
they  say 

The  blessed  church-bells  drive  the  demons 

off. 

Fio.     If  I  but  knew  the  reason  of  your 
sadness, 

Then  I   might  comfort  you  ;  but  I  know 
nothing  — 

Not  even  your  name. 

Ber.  I  'd  have  no  name  for  thee 

But  "  father." 

Fio.  In  the  convent  at  Cesena, 

Where  I  was  rear'd,  they  us'd  to  call  me 
orphan. 

I  thought  I  had  no  father,  till  you  came. 

And  then  they  needed  not  to  say  I  had  one; 

My  own  heart  told  me  that. 

Ber.  I  often  think 

I  had  done  well  to  have  left  thee  there,  in 
the  peace 

Of  that  still  cloister.    But  it  was  too  hard  ! 

My  empty  heart  so  hunger'd  for  my  child, 

For  those  dear  eyes  that  look  no  scorn  for 
me, 

That  voice  that  speaks  respect  and  tender- 
ness, 

Even    for    me  !  —  My    dove  —  my     lily- 
flower  — 

My  only  stay  in  life  !  —  O   God  !   I  thank 
thee 

That  thou  hast  left  me  this  at  least  ! 

[He  weeps. 
Fio.  Dear  father  ! 

You  're  crying  now  —  you  must  not  cry  — 
you  must  not  — 

I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  cry. 


TOM   TAYLOR 


449 


Ber.  Let  be  ! 

'T  were  better  than  to  see  me  laugh. 

Fio.  But  wherefore  ? 

You  say  you  are  so  happy  here,  and  yet 
You  never  come  but  to  weep  bitter  tears. 
And  I  can   but  weep,  too,  —  not  knowing 

why. 

Why  are  you  sad  ?     Oh,  tell  me  —  tell  me 
.          all! 
Ber.     I  cannot.     In  this  house  I  ain  thy 

father  ; 

Out  of  it,  what  I  am  boots  not  to  say ; 
Hated,  perhaps,  or  envied  —  fear'd,  I  hope, 
By  many  —  scorn 'd   by  more  —  and  lov'd 

by  none. 

In  this  one  innocent  corner  of  the  world 
I  would  but  be  to  thee  a  father  —  some- 
thing 
August  and  sacred  ! 

Fio.  And  you  are  so,  father. 

Ber.     I  love  thee  with  a  love  strong  as 

the  hate 
I  bear  for  all  but  thee.     Come,  sit  beside 

me, 
With  thy  pure  hand  in  mine  —  and  tell  me 

still, 
"I  love  you,"  and  "I  love  you," — only 

that. 
Smile  on  me  —  so  !  —  thy  smile  is  passing 

sweet  ! 

Thy  mother  used  to  smile  so  once  —  O  God  ! 
I  cannot  bear  it.  Do  not  smile  —  it  wakes 
Memories  that  tear  my  heart-strings.  Do 

not  look 

So  like  thy  mother,  or  I  shall  go  mad  ! 
Fio.     Oh,  tell  me  of  my  mother  ! 
Ber.     [Shuddering.']  No,  no,  no  ! 

Fio.     She  's  dead  ? 
Ber.     Yes. 

Fio.     You  were  with  her  when  she  died? 
Ber      No  !  —  leave  the  dead  alone  —  talk 

of  thyself  — 

Thy  life  here.     Thou  heed'st  well  my  cau- 
tion, girl, 

Not  to  go  out  by  day,  nor  show  thyself 
There  at  the  casement. 

Fio.  Yes  ;   some  day,  I  hope, 

You  will  take  me  with  you,  but  to  see  the 

town  ; 

'T  is  so  hard  to  be  shut  up  here  alone  — 
Ber.     Thou  hast  not  stirr'd  abroad  ? 
Fio.  Only  to  vespers  — 

You  said  I  might  do  that  with  good  Bri- 

gitta  ; 
I  never  go  forth  or  come  in  alone. 


Ber.     That  's  well.     I  grieve  that  thou 

shouldst  live  so  close. 
But  if  thou  knewest  what  poison  's  in  the 

air, 

What  evil  walks  the  streets  ;  how  innocence 
Is  a  temptation,  beauty  but  a  bait 
For  desperate  desires  !  —  no  man,  I  hope, 
Has  spoken  to  thee  ? 

Fio.  Only  one. 

Ber.  Ha  !  who  ? 

Fio.    I  know  not  —  't  was  against  my  will. 
Ber.  You  gave 

No  answer  ? 

Fio.  No  —  I  fled. 

Ber.  He  follow'd  you  ? 

Fio.     A  gracious  lady  gave  me  kind  pro- 
tection, 
And  bade  her  train  guard  me  safe  home. 

Oh,  father, 
If  you  had  seen  how  good  she  was,  how 

gently 
She   sooth'd   my  fears,  —  for   I   was   sore 

afraid,  — 
I  'm  sure  you  'd  love  her. 

Ber.  Did  you  learn  her  name  ? 

Fio.     I  ask'd  it,   first,  to  set  it  in  my 

prayers, 

And  then  that  you  might  pray  for  her. 
Ber.     Her  name  ?     \_Aside.~]     I  pray  ! 
Fio.  The  Countess  Malatesta. 

Ber.     [AsideJ]     Count   Malatesta's  wife 

protect  my  child  ! 
You  have  not  seen  her  since  ? 

Fio.  No,  though  she  urged  me 

So  hard  to  come  to  her  ;    and  ask'd  my 

name  ; 
And  who  my  parents  were  ;  and  where  I 

'    liv'd. 

Ber.     You  did  not  tell  her  ? 
Fio.  Who  my  parents  were  ? 

How  could  I,  when  I  must  not  know  my- 
self ? 
Ber.     Patience,   my  darling ;    trust  thy 

father's  love, 

That  there  is  reason  for  this  mystery  ! 
The  time  may  come  when  we  may  live  in 

peace, 

And  walk  together  free,  under  free  heaven  ; 
But  that  cannot  be  here  —  nor  now  ! 

Fio.  Oh,  when  — 

When  shall  that  time  arrive  ? 

Ber.  When  what  I  live  for 

Has  been  achiev'd  ! 

Fio.  What  you  live  for  ? 

Ber.  Revenge  I 


45° 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Fio.     Oh,  do  not  look  so,  father  ! 
Ber.  Listen,  girl. 

You  ask'd  me  of  your  mother  ;  it  is  time 
You  should  know   why  all  questioning  of 

her 
Racks  me  to  madness.      Look  upon  me, 

child  ; 

Misshapen  as  I  am,  there  once  was  one, 
Who  seeing  me  despis'd  —  mock'd,  lonely, 

poor  — 

Lov'd  me,  I  think,  most  for  my  misery  ; 
Thy  mother,  like  thee  — just  so  pure  — so 

sweet. 

I  was  a  public  notary  in  Cesena  ; 
Our  life  was  humble,  but  so  happy  :  thou 
Wert   in   thy   cradle    then,    and    many   a 

night 

Thy  mother  and  I  sate  hand  in  hand  to- 
gether, 

Watching  thine  innocent  smiles,  and  build- 
ing up 
Long  plans  of  joy  to  come  ! 

Fio.  Alas  !  she  died  ! 

Ber.     Died  !    There  are  deaths  't  is  com- 
fort to  look  back  on  : 

Hers  was  not  such  a  death.     A  devil  came 
Across   our   quiet    life,    and    mark'd   her 

beauty, 
And  lusted  for  her  ;  and  when  she  scoru'd 

his  offers, 

Because  he  was  a  noble,  great  and  strong, 
He  bore  her  from  my  side  —  by  force  — 

and  after 
I  never  saw  her  more  :  they  brought  me 

news 
That  she  was  dead  ! 

Fio.  Ah  me  ! 

Ber.  And  I  was  mad 

For  years  and  years,  and  when  my  wits 

came  back,  — 
If    e'er    they   came,  —  they  brought  one 

haunting  purpose, 
That  since  has  shap'd  my  life,  —  to  have 

revenge  ! 

Revenge  upon  her  wronger  and  his  order  ; 
Revenge  in  kind  ;  to  quit  him  —  wife  for 

wife  ! 
Fio.     Father,  't  is  not  for  me  to  question 

with  you  ; 
But  think  !  —  revenge    belongeth  not  to 

man, 
It  is  God's  attribute  —  usurp  it  not ! 

Ber.     Preach  abstinence  to  him  that  dies 

of  hunger  ; 
Tell  the  poor  wretch  who  perishes  of  thirst 


There  's    danger   in    the   cup   his   fingers 

clutch  : 
But  bid   me   not  forswear    revenge.     No 

word ! 
Thou  know'st  now  why  I  mew  thee  up  so 

close  ; 
Keep   thee  out  of  the  streets  ;  shut  thee 

from  eyes 
And  tongues  of  lawless  men  —  for  in  these 

days 

All  men  are  lawless.     'T  is  because  I  fear 
To  lose  thee,  as  I  lost  thy  mother. 

Fio-  Father, 

I  '11  pray  for  her. 

Ber.         Do  —  and  for  me  ;  good  night ! 
Fio.     Oh,  not  so  soon  —  with  all  these 

sad,  dark  thoughts, 
These    bitter   memories.      You    need    my 

love  : 
I  '11  touch  my  lute  for  you,  and  sing  to 

it. 

Music,  you  know,  chases  all  evil  angels. 
Ber.     I  must   go  :    't  is  grave  business 

calls  me  hence  — 
[Aside]     'T  is  time  that  I  was  at  my  post. 

—  My  own, 
Sleep  in  thine  innocence.      Good  !     Good 

night  ! 
Fio.     But  let  me  see  you  to  the  outer 

door. 
Ber.     Not   a   step    further,   then.     God 

guard  this  place, 
That  here  my  flower  may  grow,  safe  from 

the  blight 

Of  look  or  word  impure,  —  a  holy  thing 
Consecrate  to  iny  service  and  my  love  ! 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 
(FROM  "PUNCH") 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murder'd  Lincoln's 

bier, 
You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to 

trace, 
Broad    for    the    self  -  complaisant    British 

sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his   fur- 
row'd  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarl'd  hands,  his  unkempt, 
bristling  hair, 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please; 


TOM   TAYLOR 


You,  whose  smart  pen  back'd  up  the  pencil's 

laugh, 
Judging  each  step   as  though  the  way 

were  plain ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chief's  perplexity,  or  people's  pain,  — 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding- 
sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  liv'd  to  rear 

anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is   there  room  for 
you? 

Yes  :  he  had  liv'd  to  shame  me  from  my 

sneer, 

To  lame  my  pencil  and  confute  my  pen  ; 
To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This   rail-splitter    a    true-born   king   of 
men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learn'd  to  rue, 

Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem 

more  true  ; 

How,    iron-like,    his     temper    grew    by 
blows  ; 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful  he  could 
be; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same  ; 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work,  —  such  work  as 

few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and 

hand, — 
As  one  who  knows,  where  there 's  a  task 

to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good 
grace  command  ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  bur- 
den grow, 
That  God    makes   instruments  to   work 

his  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 
Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good 
and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 
That   he   felt   clear  was   Liberty's   and 
Right's, 


As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 
His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwart- 
ing mights,  — 

The  unclear'd  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 
The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's 

axe, 
The   rapid  that    o'erbears   the   boatman's 

toil, 

The  prairie  hiding  the  maz'd  wanderer's 
tracks, 

The  ambush'd   Indian,   and  the   prowling 

bear,  — 
Such   were   the   deeds    that   help'd   his 

youth  to  train  : 
Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit 

may  bear, 

If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and 
grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destin'd  work  to  do, 
And  liv'd  to  do  it  ;  four  long-suffering 

years' 

111  fate,  ill  feeling,  ill  report  liv'd  through, 
And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to 
cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 
And  took  both  with  the  same  unwaver- 
ing mood,  — 
Till,  as  he  came  on  light  from  darkling 

days, 

And  seem'd  to  touch  the  goal  from  where 
he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 
Reach'd  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger 

prest, 
And  those  perplex'd  and  patient  eyes  were 

dim, 

Those   gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs   were 
laid  to  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness   in   his   heart    and    on    his 

pen, 
When   this   vile   murderer   brought   swift 

eclipse 

To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will 
to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to 

sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame. 


45  2 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Sore  heart,  so  stopp'd  when  it  at  last  beat 

high  ! 

Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its   triumph 
came  ! 

A  deed    accurs'd !      Strokes    have    been 

struck  before 

By  the   assassin's    hand,  whereof  men 
doubt 


If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore  ; 
But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands 
darkly  out, 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 
Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly 

striven, 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be   for- 
given. 


FROM  "MARIE    DE    MERANIE" 

THE      PARTING      OF     KING      PHILIP     AND 
MARIE 

SCENE. — A  Room  in  the  Palace.     MARIE 

alone. 

Marie.     Another  night,  and  yet  no  tid- 
ings come. 

Day  follows  day  to  mock  me  in  its  round. 
O  Time  !  that  to  all  senseless  things  dost 

bear 

Succor  and  comfort,  —  the  reviving  heat 
And  freshening  dew  to  tree  and  flower  and 

weed,  — 

Why  dost    thou  pass  the   famish'd   heart 
and  smile  ? 

Enter  ANNE. 
Anne.     Dear  lady  ! 
Marie.   [Eagerly.'}    Anne  !    Well  ?    No  ; 

your  face  is  void  ! 
You  have  no  tidings  for  me. 

Anne.  Alas  !  none. 

Marie.     We  must  be  patient,  Anne.     I 

cannot  think 

The  Council  will  bereave  me  of  my  lord. 
Anne.     Heaven  touch  their  hearts  with 

gentleness  ! 

Marie.  Amen  ! 

Anne.     And  keep  the  king —  [Faltering. 
Marie.        Why  falter  ?     Prayers  should 

breathe 
Trust,  and  not  fear. 

Anne.     Heaven  keep  King  Philip  faith- 
ful 
And  worthy  of  your  love. 

Marie.  I  will  not  say 

Amen  to  that.    To  pray  he  may  be  faithful 


Were  to  misdoubt  he  is  so. 

Anne.  All  men,  being  tempted, 

Are  prone  to  fall ;  most  prone,  ambitious 

kings. 

Marie.     What  dost  thou  mean  ? 
Anne.        By  thoughts  on  ill  that  may  be 
To  shield  your  heart  from  worse. 

Marie.  Worse  ?     What  were  worse 

Than  treachery  in  my  lord?     Rash  girl, 

that  word 

Stretches  to  woe  so  infinite,  it  fathoms 
An  ocean  of  despair  !      Uncrown  me,  slay 

me, 
Honors  and  life  must  end.   Not  love  !   The 

grave 

Is  as  a  port  where  it  unlades  its  wealth 
For  immortality.     But  rob  or  taint 
The  merchandise   of  love  —  then   let   the 

bark 
Drift  helmless  o'er  the  seas,  or  strike  the 

shoals  ! 
They  can  but  wreck  a  ruin. 

Anne.  Pardon,  madam. 

I  would  not  thus  have  mov'd  you  ;  but  — 

Marie.  Be  silent  ! 

Thy  look  doth  herald  thoughts  my  soul  re- 
pels. 
He  did  desert  me  once.     You  see  I  read 

you. 
No,  Anne  !     His  love  was  changeless,  but 

he  quell'd  it 
For    duty    and    his    country.     O    shame, 

shame  ! 

Listening  thy  treason,  I  adopt  it.     Go  !  — 
Nay,  not  unkindly.    This  suspense  disturbs 

me. 
Leave  me  awhile.     There,  there  ! 

[  Taking  her  hand,  ANNE  goes  out. 
Another  night  1 


JOHN  WESTLAND   MARSTON 


453 


It  cannot  last  forever.     Even  now 
The  unregarding  messenger  despatch'd 
To  bear  my  doom  his  onward  course  may 

speed. 
They  could  not  part  us,  Philip,  had  they 

seen 

Our  happy  solitude,  our  inner  world 
Of  secret,  holy,  all-sufficing  bliss. 
They  guess  it  not,  nor  feel  it.     At  their 

knees, 
Lock'd  in   my  arms,  I  should  have   told 

them  this, 

And  forced  my  heart  an  avenue  to  theirs 
Through  all   their  wiles,  for  hearts  must 

answer  hearts  ; 
But  mine  was  dumb,  and  how  could  theirs 

reply? 
Woe 's  me  !     Who  comes  ? 

Enter  PHILIP. 

Philip  —  my  lord  !  —  Say,  say, 
May  I  embrace  thee  ?  —  may  I  call  thee 

mine  ?  — 
Am  I  thy  wife  ? 

Phil.  Yes  ;  in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

Marie.      And  not    of  earth  ?     A  doom 

told  in  a  breath  ; 
Brief,  but  so  cold  that  it  hath  froze  the 

fount 
Whence  sorrow  gushes  ! 

Phil.  I  am  dear  to  thee  ? 

Marie.     What  !  is  there  hope  ?     If  not, 

encourage  none. 
Phil.     Why  should  we  be  the  slaves  of 

Rome? 

Marie.  Thou  wilt 

Resist   his  mandate  ?     Yet  thy  kingdom, 

love? 
Phil.    Dearest,  most  faithful  !     We  may 

still  remain 

Bound  to  each  other,  and  the  Papal  curse 
Pass  from  the  realm. 

Marie.      How  ?     Haste  thee  to  disclose. 
Phil.     The  Council  has  pronounced  no 

sentence. 

Mane.  Yet 

Thou  art  return'd  ! 

Phil.  Like  to  a  criminal 

I  stood  before  the  conclave.     Every  day 
Brought  some  new  contumely.   The  weight 

I  bore 

Of  strain'd  suspense  and  nice  indignity 
Was  pleasant  pastime  for  them  ;  and  they 

linger'd, 
Protracting  their  enjoyment,  and  inviting 


The  universe  to  look  on  haughty  Philip 
Crouch'd    at  their  stools,  and    learn  from 

thence  how  Rome 
Would  deal  with  rebel  kings  ! 

Marie.  And  yet  you  bore  it  ? 

Phil.     It  was  the  Church's  aim  to  judge 

my  cause, 

To  plant  its  insolent  foot  upon  my  neck, 
Humbling  all  crowns  in  mine.    I  look'd  for 

this  ; 
I  bore  it  long.       At  last  scorn  heap'd  on 

scorn 
Turn'd  patience  to  revolt. 

Marie.  [After  a  short  pause.]  And  then  ? 

How  then  ? 
Phil.    [Avoiding  her  look.]    Marie  !  I  said 

within  my  soul,  my  pomp, 
My  title,  all  my  gilded  shows  of  power, 
Were  not  the  links  that  bound"  thy  love  to 

mine. 
Was  I  right  there  ? 

Marie.        Can  Philip  ask  that  question  ? 
Phil.     Her   trust   doth   sting   me   more 

than  could  reproach. 

Too  late,  too  late  !  all  must  be  told  !   [Aside. 
Marie.  What  follow'd  ? 

Phil.      I  will  not  hear  your  judgment, 

lords,  I  cried  : 
Not  mov'd  by  you,  but  of  my  sovereign 

will, 

I  have  resolv'd  that  Marie  shall  resign 
The    throne    and   empty  state    she    never 

priz'd, 

And  Ingerburge  to  her  lost  dignities 
Be  straight  restor'd.     'T  is  all  that  Den- 
mark seeks  ; 
Therefore  dissolve  the  interdict ! 

Marie.  Thou  saidst  this  ?  — 

Heard  I  aright  ? 

Phil.     [Confused.]    Marie,  thou  didst. 
Marie.  And  Philip 

Could  of  his  proper  will  cast  Marie  out ! 
I  thought  —  I  thought  you  said  we  should 

not  part. 

Phil.     Part  ?  —  never,  never !     Part ! 
Marie.     But  have  you  not  own'd  Inger- 
burge your  wife  ? 
I  am  no  longer  queen. 

Phil.  But  for  all  this 

We  must  not  part. 

Marie.      Husband  —  I   pray   your   par- 
don ; 

I  can't  forget  you  were  so  —  torture  not 
My  mind  with  this  perplexity  !     How  is  't 
I  can  be  thine,  and  Ingerburge  thy  wife  ? 


454 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Phil.     [After  a  pause.]     She  is  but  so  iu 

name  ;  thou  wilt  retain 
The  empire  of  my  heart. 

Marie.  Ha  !  how  the  light  — 

The  cruel  light  I  could  not  see  before  — 
Bursts  on  my  sight  !     No  ;  't  is  some  hide- 
ous dream. 

Although  I  see,  I  shall  not  touch  thy  hand. 
[Takes  his  hand  as  if  to  assure  herself. 
It  is  reality  !     And  yet  —  forgive  me  ! 
A  subtle  tempter  through  my  o'erwrought 

brain 
Would  stab    my  trust  in  thee.     He  shall 

not,  love  ! 
Even  now  I  'in  calmer.     Pray,  repeat  the 

words,  — 
The  words  you  spake  but  now. 

Phil.  I  said,  my  own, 

Though  Ingerburge  might  bear  the  name 

of  queen, 
Thou  only  shouldst  rule  Philip  — 

Marie.  Pause  awhile. 

Though  Ingerburge  might  bear  the  name 

of  queen, 
I  only  should  rule  Philip  — 

[Signs  to  him  to  proceed. 
Phil.  Thou  shouldst  share 

His     hours     of     love  —  thou     only ;    thou 
shouldst  be  — 

[Hesitating,  and  averting  his  head. 
Marie.  His  paramour  !  O  God  !  although 

his  voice 

Was  sham'd  from  speech,  this  is  the  thing 
he  means.  [She  turns  from  him. 

Phil.     Thou  wouldst  not  go  ? 
Marie.  I  am  already  gone  ! 

We  measure  distance  by  the  heart. 

Phil.  Yet  hear  me  ! 

Marie.     The  Duke  de  Meran's  daughter 

listens,  sir.  [She  sits. 

Phil.     [About  to  kneel.]    If  this  humility 

may  aught  — 

Marie.  No  knee  ! 

Respect  so  far  my  woe's  reality, 
As  to  put  by  these  pageant  semblances. 
Phil.     Oh  !  has  this  grief  no  remedy  ? 
Marie.  None,  none. 

The  faith  of  love  no  hand  can  wound  but 

that 
Was  pledged  to  guard  it.   Then  what  hand 

can  staunch  ? 
We  strive  no  more  with  doom  ;   the  sad 

mistake 

May  be  endur'd,  but  not  retriev'd.     No, 
no  ! 


Phil.     By   heaven,   you  do  me  wrong  ! 

'T  is  not  in  man 

To  conquer  destiny.     I  made  you  queen. 
Marie.     You  made  me  queen  !     I  made 

you  more  than  king. 
When  my  eyes  rais'd  their  worship  to  thy 

face, 

I  saw  no  crown.     I  ask'd  not  if  thy  hand 
Clos'd   on  a  sceptre  ;  but  mine  press'd  it 

close, 

Because  it  rent  the  shackles  of  the  slave. 
'T  was  not  thy    grandeur  won  me.     Had 

the  earthquake 
Eugulfed    thine    empire,  —  had    frowning 

Fate 
Lower'd  on  thine  arms  and  scourged  thee 

from  the  field, 

A  fugitive  ;  if  on  thy  forehead  Rome 
Had  grav'd  her  curse,  and  all  thy  kind  re- 

coil'd 

In  horror  from  thy  side,  —  I  yet  had  cried, 
There   is   no  brand  upon  thy  heart  ;  let 

that, 

In  the  vast  loneliness,  still  beat  to  mine  ! 
Phil.     [Falling  at  her  feet.]     You  had  ; 

you  had  !  the  dust  is  on  my  head  ! 
Sweet   saint  !  thou  'rt  of   a   higher   brood 

than  we, 
Hast  right  to  spurn  me  from  thee. 

Marie.  Rise  !     The  feet, 

By  thorns  on  life's  rough   path  so  often 

pierced, 

Are  little  like  to  spurn  a  stumbling  brother. 
Phil.  [Rising.]  Forgive,  forgive  me, 

Marie  ! 

Marie.  You  repent  ? 

'T  was  but  delusion.     You  will  be  again 
The   Philip   I   ador'd  !     That    hope   shall 

bless  me 

When  we  are  far  apart.      And   now  for- 
ever 

In  this  dark  world  farewell  !    Another  land 
I  seek,  but  ne'er  shall  find  another  home. 
Shield  him,  all  holy  powers  !     Philip  — 

[Extending  her  hand. 
Phil.  Go,  go  ; 

I  was  not  worthy  thee  ! 

Marie.  Not  thus,  not  thus  ! 

Phil.     But  one  embrace.     It  is  the  last, 
the  last  !  [They  embrace. 

Go,  Marie  ! 

[MARIE  goes  to  the  door.  She  reverts  her 
head.  They  regard  each  other  in  silence 
for  a  few  moments,  after  which  MARIE 
slowly  disappears. 


MARSTON  — WILLS 


455 


Phil.  [After  a  pause,  sinking  into  a  chair. ~\ 
I  'm  alone  on  earth  !     She  's  gone, 
And  what  is  left  me  ? 

[  The  roll  of  drums  is  heard  without. 
[He  suddenly  rises.  ]  Ha  !  that  clamor  speaks 
In  stern  reply  ;  a  summons  to  the  field  ! 


Fate,  that  denies  me  love,  has  left  me  ven- 
geance. 

Friends  fail  me,  foemen  swarm  my  coasts. 
'T  is  well! 

Now,  fiend  of  war,  I  am  devote  to  thee  ! 

[He  rushes  out 


Gorman 


CROMWELL   AND    HENRIETTA 
MARIA 

FROM  THE  STAGE  TEXT  OF  "CHARLES  THE 

FIRST" 

SCENE.  —  Whitehall  Palace.     CROMWELL  dis- 
covered seated. 

Cromwell.     On  me  and  on  my  children  ! 

So  said  the  voice  last  night  !  A  lying 
dream  ! 

This  blood  —  this  blood  on  me  and  on  my 
children. 

It  is  my  wont  to  feel  more  heartiness 

When  face  to  face  with  action.  But  this 
deed 

Doth  wrap  itself  in  doubt  and  fearfulness. 

Do  I  best  to  confront  him  at  this  hour, 

Even  when  yon  scaffold  waiteth  for  its  vic- 
tim, 

And  his  pale  face  doth  look  like  martyrdom? 

I  will  not.     Out  upon  my  sinking  heart ! 

The  standard-bearer  fainteth,  and  my  fol- 
lowers 

Grow  slack.     I  '11  hie  me  to  them  — 

And  yet,  if  by  the  granting  him  his  life 

He  abdicate  —  no  shifts  —  he  abdicate  ! 

Then  —  then  this  offer  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales  — 

This  young  Charles  Stuart  — he  in  our  ab- 
solute power, 

As  he  doth  promise  if  we  spare  his  father. 

Why,  if  he  come  —  I  had  not  thought  of 
that  — 

Both  son  and  father  given  to  our  hands  : 

Then  have  we  scotch'd  the  snake  ! 

Enter  an  Attendant,  who  hands  CROMWELL 

a  letter. 

Attend.     My   Lord-General  —  from   the 
King  !  [Exit  Attendant. 

Crom.  [Reads  the  letter,!  "  Declines  to  see 
me!" 


Well  — well  — 

"  His  last  hour  disturbed  !  " 

It  shall  be  thy  last  hour. 

"  As  touching  the  Prince  of  Wales'  noble 
offering  of  himself  for  me.   Look  back  on  my 
past  life,  and  thou  art  answer' d  I " 
Past  life  !     Full  of  deceit  and  subtle  car- 
riage. 

"  I  pardon  thee  and  all  mine  enemies,  and 
may  Heaven  pardon  them  I  " 
What  now  doth  stay  to  rend  away  this  patch 
On  our  new  garment  ? 
England  !  one  hour  —  gray  tyranny  is  deadl 
And  in  this  hand  thy  future  destiny. 

Enter  QUEEN. 

Madam,  my  daughter  hardly  did  prevail 
That  I  should  grant  you  this  last  inter- 
view. 
It  must  be  brief  and  private,  or  I  warn; 

you 

I  cannot  answer  for  your  safe  return. 
Queen.     [Aside.']      Sainte   Vierge,  aidez- 

moi !     This  is  the  man  who  holds 
My  husband's  life  within  his  hands.     Ah  t 
could  I  —  Sainte  Marie,  inspirez-wioij 
mettez  votre  force  dans  mes  prieres! 
I  see  him  as  the  drowning  swimmer  sees 
The  distant  headland  he  can  never  reach. 
Sir,  do  not  go.     I  wish  to  speak  to  you. 
Crom.     Madam,  I  wait. 
Queen.     Oh,   sir !   the  angels   wait   and 

watch  your  purpose  : 
Unwritten  history  pauses  for  your  deed, 
To  set  your  name  within  a  shining  annal, 
Or  else  to  brand  it  on  her  foulest  page  ! 
Crom.     Madam,  't  is  not  for  me  to  answer 

you. 

And  for  unwritten  history  —  thou  nor  I 
Can  brief  it  in  our  cause  ;  't  will  speak  the 

truth. 

England  condemns  the  King,  and  he  shall 
die  1 


456 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Queen.     Oh,  pity  !  pity  !    Hast  a  human 

heart? 

How  canst  thou  look  at  me  so  cruelly  ? 
I  look  for  pity  on  thy  stubborn  cheek 
As  I  might  place  a  mirror  to  dead  lips 
To  find  one  stain  of  breath. 
The  brightest  jewel  ever  set  in  crown 
Were  worthless  to  the  glisten  of  one  tear 
Upon  thy  lid  —  one  faint  hope-star  of  mercy. 
Be  merciful  !  a  queen  doth  kneel  to  thee. 

Crom.     Not  to  me  !     Nor  am  I  now 
A   whit  more  niov'd  because   thou   art  a 

queen ! 
Queen.      I   am   no   queen  ;  but  a  poor 

stricken  woman, 
On  whom  this  dreadful  hour  is  closing  in. 

\_Chimes.     The  half-hour. 
Dost  hear  the  clock  ?     Each  second  quiver- 
ing on 

Is  full  of  horror  for  both  thee  and  me  : 
Endless    remorse   thy   doom,   and   sorrow 

mine. 
Crom.     Madam,  no  more.     I  shall  have 

no  remorse 
jFor  an  unhappy  duty  well  perform'd. 

Queen.     Thou   call'st   it   duty  ;   but   all 

heaven  and  earth 
iShall   raise  one  outraged   cry  and  call  it 

murder ; 

It  shall  be  written  right  across  the  clouds 
Jn   characters  of   blood   till  Heaven  hath 

judged  it. 
Crom.     Nay,  you  forget !  the  righteous 

cause  doth  prosper. 
If  this  be  crime,  the  hand  of  Heaven  not  in 

it, 
Then  had  thy  husband  flourish'd  ;  on  our 

side 
God's  heavy  judgment  fallen,  shame  and 

slaughter. 
Queen.      God   speaketh   not   in   thunder 

when  he  judges, 

But  in  the  dying  moans  of  those  we  treasure, 
And  in  the  silence  of  our  broken  hearts  ! 
Thou  hast  a  daughter,   and  her  cheek  is 

pale  ; 

Her  days  do  balance  between  life  and  death, 
Whether  they  wither  or  abide  with  thee. 
Let  him  be  cruel  who  hath  none  to  love  ; 
But  let  that  father  tremble  who  shall  dare 
Widow   another's   home  !      She   loves  the 

King. 

Take  now  his  sacred  life,  and  hie  thee  home. 
Smile  on  her,  call  her  to  thee,  she  will  linger. 
Ask  for  thy  welcome,  she  will  give  it  thee  ! 


A  shudder  as  she  meets  thee  at  the  door  : 
A  cry  as  thou  wouldst  think  to  touch  her 

lips  ; 

A  sickening  at  thy  guilty  hands'  caress  ! 
The   haunting   of   a   mute   reproach  shall 

dwell 

Forever  in  her  eyes  till  they  be  dead  ! 
Crom.     [Moved.~\     Silence  !     You  speak 

you  know  not  what.     No  more  ! 
Thou  voice  within,  why  dost  thou  seem  so 

far? 

Shine  out,  thou  fiery  pillar  !     Bring  me  up 
From  the  dead  wilderness  — 

Queen.      Oh !   yield   not   to   that   voice, 

hearken  to  mercy, 

And  I  will  join  my  prayers  to  thine  hence- 
forth 

That  thy  Elizabeth  may  live  for  thee. 
Crom.     Madam,  I  came  heft;  with  intent 

of  mercy, 
And  with  a  hope  of  life. 

Queen.  Of  life  —  of  life  ! 

Crom.    I  offer'd  him  his  life  —  he  scorn 'd 

my  offer. 
Queen.     No  —  no  —  he  shall  not.     I  am 

somewhat  faint  ; 
The   hope  thou  showest  striketh  me  like 

lightning. 

Life  !  didst  thou  say  his  life  ?     Ask  any- 
thing. 
Crom.     If  he  would  abdicate  and  quit  the 

kingdom. 
>     Queen.     And  he  shall  do  it.    I  will  answer 

for  it. 
Give  me  but  breathing-time  to  move  him, 

sir. 
Crom.     Stay,  madam.     If  we  spare  your 

husband's  life 

Your  son  has  offer'd  to  submit  his  person 
Into  our  hands,  and  set  his  sign  and  seal 
To  any  proposition  we  demand. 

Queen.     "Thou   strikest  a  fountain   for 

me  in  the  rock, 

And  ere  my  lips  can  touch  it,  it  is  dry  !  " 
My  husband  first  must  abdicate,  and  then 

my  son  — 

What  was  the  answer  of  the  King  to  thee  ? 
Crom.     He  doth  refuse  our  mercy,  and 

elects 

To  carry  to  his  death  the  name  of  King. 
Queen.     When  all  was  lost  at  Newark, 

and  thy  King 
Was  bought  and  sold  by  his  own  country. 

men, 
'T  was  thou  who  with  a  fawning  cozenage 


WILLS  — GILBERT 


457 


Lur'd  thy  good  master  to  undo  himself, 
To  doubt  where  all  his  hope  was  to  confide, 
And  blindly  trust  where  every  step  was 

fatal  ! 

'Twas   thou,   when   the  repenting  Parlia- 
ment 
Were  fain  for  reconcilement,  brought  thy 

soldiers  — 
Thou  (jealous  stickler  for  the  Commons' 

rights) 

Arrested  every  true  man  in  the  house, 
And  pack'd  the  benches  with  thy  regicides  ! 
Cram.     What,  madam,  is  the  purpose  of 

this  railing  ? 
Queen.  Thou  think'st  to  make  the  mother 

a  decoy, 

And,  holding  the  lost  father  in  thy  grip, 
Secure  the  son  who  yet  may  punish  thee  ! 

[Chimes.     Three  quarters. 
Cram.     Madam,   the   clock  !    say,  what 

dost  thou  intend  ? 


Queen.     To  choke  my  sighs,  to  hide  each 

bitter  tear, 

To  keep  a  calm  and  steadfast  countenance, 
To  mask  my  anguish  from  his  Majesty. 
Cram.     So  !  it  were  well  ;  and  then  — 
Queen.     Then  we  will  both  be  faithful  to 

ourselves, 
Even  unto  death  ! 

Cram.     Will  you  not,  madam,  use  your 

influence  ? 
Queen.     Never  !     My  husband,  sir,  shall 

die  a  KING  ! 
Cram.     Thou  shadow  of  a  King,  then  art 

thou  doom'd  ! 

I  wash  mine  hands  of  it.  [Aside. 

What  melancholy  doth  raven  on  my  heart  ? 
Thou  child  of  many  prayers,  Elizabeth  !  — 
I  '11  to  the  Generals.     Fairfax  relents. 
That   not   will   I.      My    hand    is    on    the 

plough  ; 
I  will  not  look  behind.      [Exit  CROMWELL. 


FROM    "PYGMALION   AND 
GALATEA" 

SCENE.  —  PYGMALION'S  Studio,  containing  a 
Statue  of  GALATEA,  before  which  curtains 
are  drawn. 

Pygmalion.     "  The  thing  is  but  a  statue 

after  all  ! " 

Cynisca  little  thought  that  in  those  words 
She  touch'd  the  key-note  of  my  discontent. 
True,  I  have  powers  denied  to  other  men  ; 
Give   me  a   block  of  senseless   marble  — 

well, 

I  'm  a  magician,  and  it  rests  with  me 
To  say  what  kernel  lies  within  its  shell  ; 
It  shall  contain  a  man,  a  woman  —  child  — 
A  dozen  men  and  women  if  I  will. 
So  far  the  gods  and  I  run  neck  and  neck  ; 
Nay,  so  far  I  can  beat  them  at  their  trade  ! 
I  am  no  bungler  —  all  the  men  /  make 
Are  straight-limb' d  fellows,  each  magnifi- 
cent 

In  the  perfection  of  his  manly  grace  : 
/  make  no  crook-backs  —  all  my  men  are 

gods, 

My  women  goddesses  —  in  outward  form. 
But  there  's  my  tether  !  1  can  go  so  far, 
And  go  no  farther  !  At  that  point  I  stop, 


Gilbert 


To  curse  the  bonds  that  hold  me  sternly 

back  ; 
To   curse    the   arrogance    of   those   proud 

gods, 
Who  say,  "  Thou  shalt  be  greatest  among 

man, 

And  yet  infinitesimally  small !  " 
Galatea.    Pygmalion  ! 
Pyg.  Who  called  ? 

Gal.  Pygmalion ! 

[PYGMALION  tears  away  curtain  and  discov- 
ers GALATEA  alive. 

Pyg.   Ye  gods  !     It  lives  ! 
Gal.  Pygmalion  ! 

Pyg.  It  speaks  1 

I  have  my  prayer  !  my  Galatea  breathes  ! 
Gal.     Where   am   I  ?      Let  me   speak, 

Pygmalion  ; 
Give   me    thy   hand  —  both    hands  —  how 

soft  and  warm  ! 

Whence  came  I  ?  [Descends. 

Pyg.  Why,  from  yonder  pedestal  ! 

Gal.     That  pedestal  ?    Ah,  yes  !  I  recol- 
lect 

There  was  a  time  when  it  was  part  of  me. 
Pyg.     That  time   has   passed    forever  •• 
thou  art  now 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


A  living,  breathing  woman,  excellent 
In  every  attribute  of  womankind. 

Gal.     Where  am  I,  then  ? 

Pyg.  Why,  born  into  the  world 

By  miracle  ! 

Gal.  Is  this  the  world  ? 

Pyg.  It  is. 

Gal.     This  room  ? 

Pyg.       This  room  is  portion  of  a  house  ; 
The    house  stands  in  a  grove  ;   the  grove 

itself 

Is  one  of  many,  many  hundred  groves 
In  Athens. 

Gal.       And  is  Athens,  then,  the  world  ? 

Pyg.     To  an  Athenian  —  yes. 

Gal.  And  I  am  one  ? 

Pyg.     By  birth  and   parentage,  not   by 
descent. 

Gal.     But  how  came  I  to  be  ? 

Pyg.  Well  —  let  me  see. 

Oh  —  you  were  quarried  in  Peutelicus  ; 
I  modell'd  you  in  clay  —  my  artisans 
Then   rough'd  you   out  in  marble  —  I,  in 

turn, 

Brought  my  artistic  skill  to  bear  on  you, 
And  made  you  what  you  are  —  in  all  but 

life; 

The  gods  completed  what  I  had  begun, 
And  gave  the  only. gift  I  could  not  give  ! 

Gal.     Then  this  is  life  ? 

Pyg.  It  is. 

Gal.  And  not  long  since 

I  was  a  cold,  dull  stone  ?     I  recollect 
That  by  some  means  I  knew  that  I  was 

stone  : 

That  was  the  first  dull  gleam  of  conscious- 
ness ; 

I  became  conscious  of  a  chilly  self, 
A  cold,  immovable  identity. 
I  knew  that  I  was  stone,  and  knew  no  more  ! 
Then,  by  an  imperceptible  advance, 
Came  the  dim  evidence  of  outer  things, 
Seen  —  darkly  and  imperfectly,  yet  seen  — 
The  walls  surrounding  me,  and  I  alone. 
That  pedestal  —  that  curtain  —  then  a  voice 
That  call'd  on  Galatea  !     At  that  word, 
Which  seeru'd  to  shake  my  marble  to  the 

core, 

That  which  was  dim  before  came  evident ; 
Sounds  that  had  humm'd  around  me,  indis- 
tinct, 
Vague,   meaningless,    seem'd    to    resolve 

themselves 

Into  a  language  I  could  understand  ; 
I  felt  my  frame  pervaded  by  a  glow 


That  seem'd  to  thaw  my  marble  into  flesh. 
Its   cold,   hard    substance    throbb'd    with 

active  life  ; 
My  limbs  grew  supple,  and  I  mov'd  —  1 

liv'd  1 

Liv'd  in  the  ecstacy  of  new-born  life  ! 
Liv'd  in  the  love  of  him  that  fashion'd  me  ! 
Liv'd  in  a  thousand   tangled   thoughts  of 

hope, 
Love,  gratitude,  —  thoughts  that  resolv'd 

themselves 
Into  one  word,  that  word  Pygmalion  ! 

[Kneels  to  him. 
Pyg.     I  have  no  words  to  tell  thee  of  my 

j°y> 

O  woman  —  perfect  in  thy  loveliness  ! 
Gal.     What  is  that  word  ?     Am  I  a  wo- 
man ? 

Pyg.  Yes. 

Gal.     Art  thou  a  woman  ? 
Pyg.  No,  I  am  a  man. 

Gal.     What  is  a  man  ? 
Pyg.  A  being  strongly  f  ram'd 

To  wait  on  woman,  and  protect  her  from 
All   ills   that    strength    and   courage   can 

avert  ; 
To  work  and   toil  for   her,  that   she  may 

rest  ; 
To  weep  and  mourn  for  her,  that  she  may 

laugh  ; 
To  fight  and  die  for   her,  that  she  may 

live  ! 
Gal.     [After  a  pause."]     I  'm  glad  I  am 

a  woman. 

Pyg.  So  am  I.  [  They  sit. 

Gal.     That  I  escape  the  pains  thou  hast 

to  bear  ? 
Pyg.     That  I  may  undergo  those  pains 

for  thee. 
Gal.     With  whom,  then,  wouldst  thou 

fight? 

Pyg.  With  any  man 

Whose  deed  or  word  gave  Galatea  pain. 
Gal.     Then  there  are  other  men  in  this 

strange  world  ? 
Pyg.     There  are,  indeed  ! 
Gal.  And  other  women  ? 

Pyg.     [Taken  aback.']  Yes. 

Though  for  a  moment  I  'd  forgotten  it  ! 
Yes,  other  women. 

Gal.  And  for  all  of  these 

Men  work,  and  toil,  and  mourn,  and  weep, 

and  fight  ? 

Pyg.    It  is  man's   duty,  if  he  's  call'd 
upon, 


WILLIAM   SCHWENCK   GILBERT 


459 


To  fight  for  all :  he  works  for  those   he 

loves. 
Gal.     Then  by  thy  work  I  know  thou 

lovest  me. 
Pyg.     Indeed,  I  love  thee  ! 

[Emltraces  her. 

Gal  With  what  kind  of  love  ? 

Pyg.  I  love  thee  [recollecting  himself  and 
releasing  her]  as  a  sculptor  loves  his 
work  ! 

^Aside.]  There  'sa  diplomacy  in  that  reply. 
Gal.     My   love   is   different   in  kind  to 

thine  : 

I  am  no  sculptor,  and  I  've  done  no  work, 
Yet   I   do  love  thee  :    say,  what   love   is 

mine  ? 
Pyg.     Tell  me  its  symptoms,  then  I  '11 

answer  thee. 
Gal.     Its  symptoms  ?   Let  me  call  them 

as  they  come. 

A  sense  that  I  am  made  by  thee  for  thee  ; 
That  I  've  110  will  that  is  not  wholly  thine  ; 
That  I  've  no  thought,  no  hope,  no  enter- 
prise 

That  does  not  own  thee  as  its  sovereign  ; 
That  I  have  life,  that  I  may  live  for  thee, 
That  I  am  thine  —  that  thou  and  I  are  one  ! 
What  kind  of  love  is  that  ? 

Pyg.  A  kind  of  love 

That  I  shall  run  some  risk  in  dealing  with  ! 
Gal.     And  why,  Pygmalion  ? 
Pyg.  Such  love  as  thine 

A  man  may  not  receive,  except  indeed 
From  one  who  is,  or  is  to  be,  his  wife  ! 
Gal.     Then/ will  be  thy  wife  ! 
Pyg.  That  may  not  be  ; 

I  have  a  wife  —  the  gods  allow  but  one. 
Gal.     Why  did  the  gods,  then,  send  me 

here  to  thee  ? 
Pyg.     I   cannot   say  —  unless  to  punish 

me 

For  unreflecting  and  presumptuous  prayer. 
I  pray'd  that  thou  shouldst  live  - —  I  have 

my  prayer, 

And  now  I  see  the  fearful  consequence 
That  must  attend  it ! 

Gal.  Tet  thou  lovest  me  ? 

Pyg.     Who  could  look  on  that  face  and 

stifle  love  ? 

Gal.     Then  I  am  beautiful  ? 
Pyg.  Indeed  thou  art. 

Gal.  I  wish  that  I  could  look  upon  my- 
self, 

But  that 's  impossible. 
Pyg.  Not  so  indeed. 


This  mirror  will  reflect  thy  face.     Behold  ! 

[.Hands  her  a  mirror. 

Gal.    How  beautiful !     I  'm  very  glad 

to  know 

That  both  our  tastes  agree  so  perfectly  ; 
Why,  my  Pygmalion,  I  did  not  think 
That  aught  could  be  more  beautiful  than 

thou, 

Till  I  beheld  myself.  Believe  me,  love, 
I  could  look  in  this  mirror  all  day  long. 
So  I  'm  a  woman  ? 

Pyg.  There  's  no  doubt  of  that  I 

Gal.    Oh  happy  maid,  to  be  so  passing 

fair  ! 

And  happier  still  Pygmalion,  who  can  gaze. 
At  will,  upon  so  beautiful  a  face  ! 

Pyg.      Hush,   Galatea !    in   thine   inno- 
cence 

Thou  sayest  things  that  others  would  re- 
prove. 
Gal.     Indeed,  Pygmalion  ?     Then  it   is 

wrong 
To  think  that  one  is  exquisitely  fair  ? 

Pyg.     Well,  Galatea,  it 's  a  sentiment 
That  every  other  woman  shares  with  thee  ; 
They  think  it,  but  they  keep  it  to  them- 
selves. 

Gal.     And  is  thy  wife  as  beautiful  as  I  ? 
Pyg.     No,  Galatea,  for  in  forming  thee 
I    took    her   features  —  lovely   in    them- 
selves — 
And  in   the   marble  made   them   lovelier 

still. 
Gal.    [Disappointed.']   Oh  !   then  I  'm  not 

original  ? 

Pyg.  Well  — no  — 

That  is  —  thou  hast  indeed  a  prototype  ; 
But   though  in  stone  thou  didst  resemble 

her, 
In  life  the  difference  is  manifest. 

Gal.     I  'm  very  glad  I  am  lovelier  than 

she. 
And  am  I  better  ? 

Pyg.  That  I  do  not  know. 

Gal.     Then  she  has  faults  ? 
Pyg.  But  very  few  indeed  ; 

Mere  trivial  blemishes,  that  serve  to  show 
That  she  and  I  are  of  one  common  kin. 
I  love  her  all  the  better  for  such  faults  ! 
Gal.     [After  a  pause.]     Tell   me  some 

faults  and  I  '11  commit  them  now. 
Pyg.     There  is  no  hurry  ;  they  will  come 

in  time  : 

Though,  for  that  matter,  it  's  a  grievous  sin 
To  sit  as  lovingly  as  we  sit  now. 


460 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Gal.     Is  sin  so  pleasant  ?     If  to  sit  and 

talk, 

As  we  are  sitting,  be  indeed  a  sin, 
Why,  I  could  sin  all  day  !     But  tell  me, 

love, 
Is  this  great  fault,  that   I'm  committing 

now, 

The  kind  of  fault  that  only  serves  to  show 
That  thou  and  I  are  of  one  common  kin  ? 
Pyg.     Indeed,  I  'm  very  much  afraid  it 

is. 
Gal.     And  dost  thou  love  me  better  for 

such  fault  ? 
Pyg.     Where  is   the  mortal   that  could 

answer  "  No  "  ? 

Gal,     Why,  then  I  'm  satisfied,  Pygma- 
lion ; 

Thy  wife  and  I  can  start  on  equal  terms. 
She  loves  thee  ? 
Pyg.  Very  much. 

Gal.  I  am  glad  of  that. 

I  like  thy  wife. 

Pyg.  And  why  ? 

Gal.  Our  tastes  agree. 

We  love  Pygmalion  well,  and,  what  is  more, 
Pygmalion  loves  us  both.  I  like  thy  wife  ; 
I  'in  sure  we  shall  agree. 

Pyg.     [Aside.]  I  doubt  it  much  ! 

Galv    Is  she  within  ? 

Pyg.  No,  she  is  not  within. 

Gal.     But  she  '11  come  back  ? 

Pyg.        .     Oh,  yes,  she  will  come  back. 

Gal.     How  pleas'd  she'll  be   to  know, 

when  she  returns, 
That  there  was  some  one  here  to  fill,  her 

place  ! 
Pyg.     [Dryly.]     Yes,  I  should  say  she  'd 

be  extremely  pleas'd. 
Gal.     Why,  there  is   something  in   thy 

voice  which  says 

That  thou  art  jesting  !     Is  it  possible 
To  say  one  thing  and  mean  another  ? 

Pyg.  Yes, 

It 's  sometimes  done. 

Gal.  How  very  wonderful ! 

So  clever ! 

Pyg.          And  so  very  useful. 
Gal.  Yes. 

Teach  me  the  art. 

Pyg.  The  art  will  come  in  time. 

My  wife  will  not  be  pleas'd  ;  there  —  that 's 

the  truth. 
Gal.     I  do  not  think  that  I  shall  like  thy 

wife. 
Tell  me  more  of  her. 


Pyg.  Well  — 

Gal.  What  did  she  say 

When  last  she  left  thee  ? 

Pyg.  Humph  !  Well,  let  me  see  : 

Oh !   true,   she  gave  thee   to   me   as   my 

wife,  — 

Her  solitary  representative  ; 
She  fear'd  I  should  be  lonely  till  she  came. 
And   counsell'd    me,   if    thoughts  of   love 

should  come, 
To  speak  those  thoughts  to  thee,  as  I  am 

wont 
To  speak  to  her. 

Gal.  That 's  right. 

Pyg.  But  when  she  spoke 

Thou  wast  a  stone,  now  thou  art  flesh  and 

blood, 
Which  makes  a  difference  ! 

Gal.  It 's  a  strange  world  ! 

A  woman  loves  her  husband  very  much, 
And  cannot  brook  that  I  should  love  him, 

too  ! 

She  fears  he  will  be  lonely  till  she  comes, 
And  will  not  let  me  cheer  his  loneliness  ! 
She  bids  him  breathe  his  love  to  senseless 

stone, 
And,  when  that  stone  is  brought  to  life,  be 

dumb  ! 

It 's  a  strange  world  —  I  cannot  fathom  it ! 
Pyg.     [Aside.]     Let   me  be  brave,  and 

put  an  end  to  this. 
[Aloud.]      Come,  Galatea  —  till   my   wife 

•     returns, 

My  sister  shall  provide  thee  with  a  home  ; 
Her  house  is  close  at  hand. 

Gal.      [Astonished  and  alarmed.]      Send 

me  not  hence, 
Pygmalion  —  let  me  stay. 

Pyg.  It  may  not  be. 

Come,  Galatea,  we  shall  meet  again. 

Gal.     [Resignedly.]    Do  with  me  as  thou 

wilt,  Pygmalion  ! 

But  we  shall  meet  again  ?  —  and  very  soon  ? 
Pyg.     Yes,  very  soon. 
Gal.  And  when  th/  wife  returns, 

She  '11  let  me  stay  with  thee  ? 

Pyg.  I  do  not  know. 

[Aside.]  Why  should  I  hide  the  truth  from 

her?    [Aloud.]     Alas! 
I  may  not  see  thee  then. 
'    Gal.  Pygmalion  I 

What  fearful  words  are  these  ? 

Pyg.  The  bitter  truth. 

I  may  not  love  thee  —  I  must  send  thee 
hence. 


GILBERT  —  MERIVALE 


461 


Gal.      Recall   those    words,    Pygmalion, 

my  love  ! 

Was  it  for  this  that  Heaven  gave  me  life  ? 
Pygmalion,  have  mercy  on  me  ;  see, 
I  am  thy  work,  thou  hast  created  me  ; 
The  gods  have  sent  me  to  thee.    I  am  thiiie, 
Thine  !  only  and  unalterably  thine  ! 
This  is  the  thought  with  which  my  soul  is 

charged. 
Thou  tellest   me   of   one  who   claims   thy 

love, 

That  thou  hast  love  for  her  alone.    Alas  ! 
I  do  not  know  these  things  —  I  only  know 


That  Heaven  has  sent  me  here  to  be  with 

thee! 

Thou  tellest  me  of  duty  to  thy  wife, 
Of  vows  that  thou  wilt  love  but  her.  Alas  ! 
I  do  not  know  these  things  —  I  only  know 
That  Heaven,  who  sent  me  here,  has  given 

me 

One  all-absorbing  duty  to  discharge  — 
To  love  thee,  and  to  make  thee  love  again  1 

[During  this  speech  PYGMALION  has  shovm 
symptoms  of  irresolution  ;  at  its  conclusion 
he  takes  her  in  his  arms,  and  embraces  her. 


Cfjarkg 


;£TATE   XIX 


NINETEEN  !  of  years  a  pleasant  number  ; 

And  it  were  well 
If  on  his  post  old  Time  would  slumber 

For  Isabel  : 

If  he  would  leave  her,  fair  and  girlish, 

Untouch'd  of  him 
Forgetting  once  his  fashions  churlish, 

Just  for  a  whim  ! 

But  no,  not  he  ;  ashore,  aboard  ship, 

Sleep  we,  or  wake, 
He  lays  aside  his  right  of  lordship 

For  no  man's  sake  ; 

But  all  untiring  girds  his  loins  up 

For  great  and  small  ; 
And,  as  a  miser  sums  his  coins  up, 

Still  counts  us  all. 

As  jealous  as  a  nine-days  '  lover, 

He  will  not  spare, 
'Spite  of  the  wealth  his  presses  cover, 

One  silver  hair  ; 

But  writes  his  wrinkles  far  and  near  in 

Life's  every  page, 
With  ink  invisible,  made  clear  in 

The  fire  of  age. 

Child  !  while   the    treacherous    flame   yet 
shines  not 

On  thy  smooth  brow, 
Where  even  Envy's  eye  divines  not 

That  writing  now, 


In  this  brief  homily  I  read  you 

There  should  be  found 
Some   wholesome   moral,  that  might  lead 

7OU 
To  look  around, 

And  think  how  swift,  as  sunlight  passes 

Into  the  shade, 
The  pretty  picture  in  your  glass  is 

Foredoom 'd  to  fade. 

But,  'faith,  the  birthday  genius  quarrels 

With  moral  rhyme, 
And  I  was  never  good  at  morals 

At  any  time  ; 

While  with  ill-omens  to  alarm  you 

'T  were  vain  to  try,  — 
To  show  how  little  mine  should  harm  you, 

Your  mother  's  by  ! 

And  what  can  Time  hurt  me,  I  pray,  with, 

If  he  insures 
Such  friends  to  laugh  regrets  away  with 

As  you  —  and  yours  ? 


READY,   AY,   READY 

OLD  England's  sons  are  English  yet, 

Old  England's  hearts  are  strong  ; 
And  still  she  wears  her  coronet 

Aflame  with  sword  and  song. 
As  in  their  pride  our  fathers  died, 

If  need  be,  so  die  we  ; 
So  wield  we  still,  gainsay  who  will, 

The  sceptre  of  the  sea. 


4.62 


DRAMATISTS  AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


Eiigland,  stand  fast  ;  let  hand  and  heart  be 

steady  ; 
Be  thy  first  word  thy  last,  —  Ready,  ay, 

ready  ! 

We  've  Raleighs  still  for  Raleigh's  part, 

We  Ve  Nelsons  yet  unknown  ; 
The  pulses  of  the  Lion  Heart 

Beat  on  through  Wellington. 
Hold,  Britain,  hold  -thy  creed  of  old, 

Strong  foe  and  steadfast  friend, 
And,  still  unto  thy  motto  true, 

Defy  not,  but  defend. 
England,  stand  fast ;  let  heart  and  hand  be 

steady  ; 

Be  thy  first  word  thy  last,  —  Ready,  ay, 
ready ! 

Men  whisper'd  that  our  arm  was  weak, 

Men  said  our  blood  was  cold, 
And  that  our  hearts  no  longer  speak 

The  clarion-note  of  old  ; 
But  let  the  spear  and  sword  draw  near 

The  sleeping  lion's  den, 
His  island  shore  shall  start  once  more 

To  life  with  armed  men. 
England,  stand  fast ;  let  heart  and  hand  be 

steady  ; 

Be  thy  first  word  thy  last,  —  Ready,  ay, 
ready ! 


SONGS    FROM   DRAMAS 

NEWS   TO   THE   KING 

"  NEWS  to  the  king,  good  news  for  all," 

The  corn  is  trodden,  the  river  runs  red. 
"  News  of  the  battle,"  the  heralds  call, 
"  We  have  won  the  field  ;  we  have  taken 

the  town  ; 
We   have   beaten   the  rebels  and  crush'd 

them  down." 
And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 

"  Who  was  my  bravest  ?  "  quoth  the  king, 
The  corn  is  trodden,  the  river  runs  red. 

"  Whom  shall  I  honor  for  this  great  thing  ?  " 

"Threescore  were  best,  where  none  were 
worst  ; 

But  Walter  Wendulph  was  aye  the  first." 
And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 


THAISA'S   DIRGE 

THAISA  fair,  under  the  cold  sea  lying, 
Sleeps   the  long  sleep   denied   to   her  by 

Earth; 

We,  adding  sighs  unto  the  wild  winds'  sigh- 
ing, 
With  all  our  mourning  under-mourn   her 

worth  : 
The  white  waves  toss  their  crested  plumes 

above  her, 
Round  sorrowing  faces  with  the  salt  spray 

wet  ; 
All  are  her  lovers  that  once  learn'd  to  love 

her, 

And  never  may  remember  to  forget  ; 
Shells  for  her  pillow   Amphitrite  bring- 

eth, 
And  sad  nymphs  of  the  dank  weed  weave 

her  shroud  ; 
Old  Triton's  horn  her  dirge  to  Ocean  sing- 

eth, 
Whose     misty    caverns     swell    the     echo 

loud  ; 
And,  while  the  tides  rock  to  and  fro  her 

bier, 
What  was  Thaisa  lies  entombed  here. 


"  What    of    my    husband  ?  "     quoth    the 

bride, 
The    corn  is  trodden,   the    river    runs 

red. 
"  Comes  he  to-morrow  ?  how  long  will  he 

bide  ?  " 
"  Put    off    thy   bridegear,    busk    thee    in 

black  ; 

Walter  Wendulph  will  never  come  back," 
And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 

'TWEEN  EARTH  AND  SKY 

SEEDS  with  wings,  between  earth  and  sky 

Fluttering,  flying  ; 
Seeds  of  a  lily  with  blood-red  core 
Breathing  of  myrrh  and  of  giroflore  : 
Where  winds  drop  them,  there  must  they 

lie, 
Living  or  dying. 


AUGUSTA  WEBSTER 


463 


Some  to  the  garden,  some  to  the  wall, 

Fluttering,  falling  ; 
Some  to  the  river,  some  to  earth  : 
Those  that  reach  the  right  soil  get  birth  ; 
None  of  the  rest  have  liv'd  at  all. 
Whose  voice  is  calling  — 

"  Here  is  soil  for  wing'd  seeds  that  near, 

Fluttering,  fearing, 
Where  they  shall  root  and  burgeon  and 

spread. 
Lacking   the  .  heart-room   the   song   lies 

dead: 

Half  is  the  song  that  reaches  the  ear, 
Half  is  the  hearing  "  ? 

DAY   IS   DEAD 

DAY  is  dead,  and  let  us  sleep, 

Sleep  a  while  or  sleep  for  aye  ; 
'T  were  the  best  if  we  unknew 
While  to-morrow  dawn'd  and  grew  ; 
It  may  bring  us  time  to  weep  : 

We  were  glad  to-day. 
Joy  for  a  little  while  is  won, 
Joy  is  ending  while  begun  ; 
Then  the  setting  of  the  sun  ; 

Afterwards  is  long  to  rue. 

TELL  ME  NOT  OF  MORROWS,  SWEET 

TELL  me  not  of  morrows,  sweet ; 
All  to-day  is  fair,  and  ours, 

Thine  and  mine  ; 
Mar  not  Now  with  needing  more. 

Neither  speak  of  yesterdays  ; 

Lose  not  Now  with  backward  gaze, 
Lingering  on  what  went  before. 
Watch  for  all  to-day's  naw  flowers, 

Mine  and  thine, 
Else  to-day  were  incomplete. 

Nay,  but  speak  of  morrows,  sweet  ; 
Lest  to-day  seem  loss  of  ours, 

Thine  and  mine, 
Leaving  nought  to  come  again. 

Nay,  but  speak  of  yesterdays, 

Lest,  forgetting  trodden  ways, 
We  have  trodden  them  in  vain. 
Make  one  love-time  of  all  hours, 

Mine  and  thine, 
Else  to-day  were  incomplete. 


THE  DEATHS  OF  MYRON  AND 
KLYDONE 

FROM    "  IN   A   DAY  " 

SCENE.  —  A  lighted  Hall.  Soft  music  playing 
without.  A  Bed  placed  in  an  alcove  among 
flowers. 

Enter  MYRON,  OLYMNIOS,  RUFUS,  LYSIS, 

and  others. 
Myr.     Move   me   that  jasmine    further 

from  the  bed  : 
The    perfume 's     sweetest     coming    faint 

through  air. 

That 's  well.      And  shut  the  nearest  case- 
ment close  : 
The   breeze   is   almost  chill.     Throw  that 

one  wide  : 

Let  waking  stars  peep  at  their  mimics  here. 
Now,  Rufus,  art  thou  ready  ? 

Ruf.  'T  is,  Art  thou? 

Myr.     Give   me   the    cup,   good    Lysis. 

Pure  wine  first. 
I  drink  to  the  Good  Genius  [drinks],  whom, 

perchance, 

I  shall  know  presently  by  some  nearer  name. 

Now,  Lysis,  that  blent  wine  whose  name  is 

Sleep.  [Drinks. 

[  To  Rufus. ~\    So,  thou  hast  seen  me  drink, 

and  know'st  what  draught, 
Who  saw'st  it  mix'd  ;  no  need  methiuks  to 

watch. 

Go,  prithee,  try  again  my  vintage  wine  : 
I  doubt  thou  wilt  not  ask  to  taste  this  brew. 
Ruf.     No,  'faith  !  my  thirst  can  wait  a 

wholesomer  tap. 
I  am  sorry  for  thee,  too. 

Myr.  Well,  go,  my  man  ; 

Thou  canst  come  by-and-by  and  see  't  was 

sure. 
[Exeunt  all  but  MYRON,  OLYMNIOS,  and 

LYSIS. 
Now  quick,  boy  !  fetch  Klydone. 

[Exit  LYSIS. 
'T  is  most  strange 

How  death  that  is  of  all  we  know  most  sure, 
Of  all  we  know  seems  most  impossible. 
I  shall  not  live  an  hour  ;  my  mind  grants 

that, 

But  grants  it  as  a  stage  of  argument, 
Gives  it  but  such  belief  as  when,  being  told 
"  So  many  fathomless  miles  to  reach  that 

star," 

We  learn  the  count  unquestioning  it  for  true, 
But  cannot  shape  conception  of  its  reach. 


464 


DRAMATISTS   AND   PLAYWRIGHTS 


I  cannot,  quick  life  still  within  my  veins, 
I  cannot  feel  a  faith  that  presently 
My  cold  oblivious  body  shall  lie  there, 
Void  of  the  soul,  an  ended  nothingness. 
Olymn.     Thou  art  too  young,  and  death 

unnatural. 

Myr.     Klydone  thinks  all  death  unnatu- 
ral. 
Olymn.     If  nature  stood  for  perfectness, 

it  were. 

And  therein  is  the  better  after-hope  : 
For  perfectness  must  be,  since  we  conceive 

it, 
And,  not  being  here,  'tis  in  some  second 

life. 
Myr.     I  '11  think  my  soul  shall,  like  the 

sunward  swallows, 
Having  known  but  summer  here,  renew  it 

there. 
Klydone  comes  not. 

Olymn.  That 's  for  want  of  wings. 

Myr.     I  would   she   had  them,   to  flee 

hence  and  rest. 
'T  is  a  wild,  long  journey.     Ah,  poor  child, 

poor  child  ! 
May  the  gods  send  her  happy. 

Olymn.  If  they  will ; 

Pray  rather  they  may  send  her  as  is  best. 
Myr.     Let  her  not  brood  upon  my  death 

too  much, 

And  most  of   all  persuade   her   from  re- 
morse : 
Tell    her   't  was  destin'd,   had   she   never 

spoken  ; 
Hush  her  from  her  own  blame  till,  by-and- 

by, 

It    takes    the    strangeness    of     unworded 

thoughts 
That  fade  like  bodiless  ghosts  beyond  our 

ken. 
Olymn.      No,  Myron.      Self -blame  's   a 

shrewd  counsellor  ; 

I  will  not  help  Klydone  from  that  good. 
Myr.     She   is   such   a   woman   as  some 

griefs  could  kill. 
Olymn.     Better  to  die  by  an  ennobling 

grief 

Than  to  live  cheerful  in  too  low  content. 
Myr.     But  spare  her,  if  it  be   but  for 

my  sake. 
Olymn.     Whom  dost  thou  ask  ?     I  spare 

not  nor  chastise  ; 
That  's  God's  to  do,  who  makes  our  self  his 

means  : 
Her  sorrowing  or  her  comfort  lie  in  her. 


Enter  LYSIS. 

Lys.     Klydone,  sir,  Klydone  —      [Stops. 

Myr.  Comes  she  not  ? 

Tell  her  to  make  more  speed,  for  I  grow 

heavy. 
Lys.     She  comes  ;  she  bade  them  carry 

her  ;  she  's  half  dead. 
Myr.     I  am  awake,  I  think.    Say  it  again. 
Half  dead  ? 

Lys.        She  took  the  poison  at  due  time  ; 
She  said  't  was  at  due  time  by  thine  own 

count; 
She  said  thou  shouldst  have  call'd  her  in 

an  hour, 
And  she  was  ready  then  :   but  't  was  too 

long, 

More  than  an  hour,  and  so  she  must  go  first 
That  did  but  mean  to  follow  thee  after- 
wards. 

Olymn.     Well,  't  is  her  right. 
Myr.  Is  it  a  message,  boy  ? 

Lys.     She  said  it  by  gasps  ;  then  bade 

me,  if  she  died, 
Tell  it  thee  for  her,  and  thou  'dst  know  and 

pardon. 
She  is  coming. 

Myr.  She  go  first !     Klydone  die  ! 

Olymnios,  hast  thou  heard  ? 

Olymn.  I  blame  her  not  ; 

Nor  weep  her  going  with  thee.     'T  is  the 

best. 
Myr.     I  would  have  had  her  live  :  she 

hated  death. 

But  we  go  hand  in  hand,  husband  and  wife. 
Lysis,  go  bid  them  hasten,  lest  she  sleep, 
Or  I,  past  waking,  ere  she  come  to  me. 

Enter  Servants  carrying  KLYDONE  on  a 
couch. 

A  Servant.    'T  is  over.    She  still  breath'd 

a  minute  since  ; 
But  now  't  is  over. 

Second  Serv.  'T  was  but  just  "  Too 

soon  !  " 

As  if  she  sigh'd  in  sleep  ;  then  only  breath'd, 
And  now  't  is  over. 

Myr.  Oh,  how  fair  she  lies  ! 

She  should  have  kept  that  smile  to  look  on 

me. 
Sweet,  canst  thou  see  me  still  ?     How  fair 

she  is ! 

Smile  on*,  Klydone,  death  has  wedded  us. 
Wife,  wilt  thou  love  me  there,  whither  we 

go  ?  [Exit  OLYMNIOS. 


AUGUSTA  WEBSTER  —  FREDERICK  LOCKER 


465 


Lys.     Master,  she  stirr'd. 
Myr.         'T  was  but  my  breath,  my  boy, 
That  mov'd  that  straying  gossamer  of  her 

hair. 
[To  the  Servants.]     Come,  lift  her  geutly, 

lay  her  on  the  bed. 
So. 

Olymn.  [  Without.']  Both  !  oh,  both  ! 
A  Servant.  Hark  !     'T  was  a  fall. 

Go  see.  [Exeunt  some  Servants. 

Myr.     Where  is  Olymnios  ? 

Reenter  a  Servant. 

What 's  the  noise  we  heard  ? 
Serv.     Olymnios,  master. 
Myr.  Yes  ? 

Serv.  He  died  and  fell. 

Myr.      When  sorrow  swells  these  iron- 
pent  hearts  they  break. 
Go,  all  of  you.    Keep  stillness,  wake  me  not. 
I  have  room  beside  thee,  love.     [Lies  down 

on  the  bed.]     Go  now,  my  friends. 
Lysis,  not  thou.    Sit  where  I  do  not  see  thee. 
Send  hence  that  music,  and  thou,  sing  me 

asleep. 
Is  it  moonlight  yet  ? 


Lys.  Yes. 

Myr.  Throw  the  curtains  back. 

Put  out  those  lights.     Now  sing   until    I 
sleep.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

No  dirges,  boy  ;  that  song  Klydone  lov'd, 
Philomel  and  the  aloe  flower,  sing  that. 
Lys.     [Sings."] 

Joy  that 's  half  too  keen  and  true 

Makes  us  tears. 
Oh  the  sweetness  of  the  tears  ! 
If  such  joy  at  hand  appears, 
Snatch  it,  give  thine  all  for  it : 
Joy  that  is  so  exquisite, 

Lost,  comes  not  new. 
(One  blossom  for  a  hundred  years.) 

Grief  that 's  fond,  and  dies  not  soon, 

Makes  delight. 
Oh  the  pain  of  the  delight ! 
If  thy  grief  be  Love's  aright, 
Tend  it  close  and  let  it  grow  : 
Grief  so  tender  not  to  know 

Loses  Love's  boon. 
(Sweet  Philomel  sings  all  the  night.) 
Myr.   [Drowsily.]  Fair  dreams,  Klydone, 
Waken  me  at  dawn.  [Sleeps. 


ELEGANTLY 


f  rcfceridt 

(FREDERICK  LOCKER) 


TO   MY    GRANDMOTHER 

SUGGESTED   BT   A   PICTURE    BY   MR.  ROMNEY 

THIS  relative  of  mine, 
Was  she  seventy-and-nine 

When  she  died  ? 
By  the  canvas  may  be  seen 
How  she  look'd  at  seventeen, 

As  a  bride. 

Beneath  a  summer  tree, 
Her  maiden  reverie 

Has  a  charm ; 

Her  ringlets  are  in  taste  ;     • 
What  an  arm  !  .   .  .  what  a  waist 

For  an  arm  ! 


With  her  bridal-wreath,  bouquet, 
Lace  farthingale,  and  gay 

Falbala, 

Were  Romney's  limning  true, 
What  a  lucky  dog  were  you, 

Grandpapa  ! 

Her  lips  are  sweet  as  love  ; 

They  are  parting  !     Do  they  move  ? 

Are  they  dumb  ? 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  and  beam 
Beseechingly,  and  seem 

To  say,  "  Come  !  " 

What  funny  fancy  slips 
From  atween  these  cherry  lips  ! 
Whisper  me, 


466 


ELEGANT!^ 


Sweet  sorceress  in  paint, 
What  canon  says  I  may  n't 
Marry  thee  ? 

That  good-for-nothing  Time 
Has  a  confidence  sublime  ! 

When  I  first 

Saw  this  lady,  in  my  youth, 
Her  winters  had,  forsooth, 

Done  their  worst. 

Her  locks,  as  white  as  snow, 
Once  sham'd  the  swarthy  crow  : 

By-and-by 

That  fowl's  avenging  sprite 
Set  his  cruel  foot  for  spite 

Near  her  eye. 

Her  rounded  form  was  lean, 
And  her  silk  was  bombazine  : 

W'ell  I  wot 

With  her  needles  would  she  sit, 
And  for  hours  would  she  knit,  — 

Would  she  not  ? 

Ah,  perishable  clay  ! 

Her  charms  had  dropp'd  away 

One  by  one  ; 
But  if  she  heav'd  a  sigh 
With  a  burden,  it  was,  "  Thy 

Will  be  done." 

In  travail,  as  in  tears, 
With  the  fardel  of  her  years 

Overpast, 

In  mercy  she  was  borne 
Where  the  weary  and  the  worn 

Are  at  rest. 

Oh,  if  you  now  are  there, 
And  sweet  as  once  you  were, 

Grandmamma, 
This  nether  world  agrees 
'T  will  all  the  better  please 

Grandpapa. 


THE   WIDOW'S    MITE 

A  WIDOW,  —  she  had  only  one  ! 
A  puny  and  decrepit  son  ; 

But,  day  and  night, 

Though  fretful  oft,  and  weak  and  small, 
A  loving  child,  he  was  her  all,  — 

The  Widow's  Mite. 


The  Widow's  Mite  —  ay,  so  sustain'd, 
She  battled  onward,  nor  complain 'd 

Though  friends  were  fewer  : 
And  while  she  toil'd  for  daily  fare, 
A  little  crutch  upon  the  stair 

Was  music  to  her. 

I  saw  her  then,  and  now  I  see 

That,  though  resign'd  and  cheerful,  she 

Has  sorrow'd  much  : 
She  has,  —  HE  gave  it  tenderly,  — 
Much  faith,  and,  carefully  laid  by, 

A  little  crutch. 

ON    AN    OLD   MUFF 

TIME  has  a  magic  wand  ! 
What  is  this  meets  my  hand, 
Moth-eaten,  mouldy,  and 

Cover'd  with  fluff  ? 
Faded,  and  stiff,  and  scant ; 
Can  it  be  ?  no,  it  can't, — 
Yes,  I  declare,  it 's  Aunt 

Prudence's  muff  ! 

Years  ago,  twenty-three, 
Old  Uncle  Doubledee 
Gave  it  to  Aunty  P. 

Laughing  and  teasing  : 
"  Prue  of  the  breezy  curls, 
Whisper  those  solemn  churls, 
What  holds  a  pretty  girl's 

Hand  without  squeezing  ?  " 

Uncle  was  then  a  lad 
Gay,  but,  I  grieve  to  add, 
Sinful,  if  smoking  bad 

Baccy  's  a  vice  : 
Glossy  was  then  this  mink 
Muff,  lined  with  pretty  pink 
Satin,  which  maidens  think 

"Awfully  nice!" 

I  seem  to  see  again 

Aunt  in  her  hood  and  train 

Glide,  with  a  sweet  disdain, 

Gravely  to  Meeting  : 
Psalm-book,  and  kerchief  new, 
Peep'd  from  the  Muff  of  Prue  ; 
Young  men,  and  pious  too, 

Giving  her  greeting. 

Sweetly  her  Sabbath  sped 
Then  ;  from  this  Muff,  it 's  said, 
Tracts  she  distributed  : 

Converts  (till  Monday  !), 


FREDERICK  LOCKER 


467 


Lur'd  by  the  grace  they  lack'd, 
Follow'd  her.     One,  in  fact, 
Ask'd  for  —  and  got  —  his  tract 
Twice  of  a  Sunday  ! 

Love  has  a  potent  spell  ; 
Soon  this  bold  ne'er-do-well, 
Aunt 's  too  susceptible 

Heart  undermining, 
Slipp'd,  so  the  scandal  runs, 
Notes  in  the  pretty  nun's 
Muff,  —  triple-corner 'd  ones, 

Fink  as  its  lining. 

Worse  follow'd  :  soon  the  jade 

Fled  (to  oblige  her  blade  !) 

Whilst  her  friends  thought  that  they  'd 

Lock'd  her  up  tightly  : 
After  such  shocking  games 
Aunt  is  of  wedded  dames 
Gayest,  and  now  her  name 's 

Mrs.  Golightly. 

In  female  conduct,  flaw 
Sadder  I  never  saw. 
Faith  still  I  Ve  in  the  law 

Of  compensation. 
Once  Uncle  went  astray, 
Srnok'd,  jok'd,  and  swore  away  ; 
Sworn  by  he  's  now,  by  a 

Large  congregation. 

Changed  is  the  Child  of  Sin  ; 
Now  he  's  (he  once  was  thin) 
Grave,  with  a  double  chin,  — 

Blest  be  his  fat  form  ! 
Changed  is  the  garb  he  wore, 
Preacher  was  never  more 
Priz'd  than  is  Uncle  for 

Pulpit  or  platform. 

If  all 's  as  best  befits 
Mortals  of  slender  wits, 
Then  beg  this  Muff  and  its 

Fair  Owner  pardon  : 
All  'sfor  the  best,  indeed 
Such  is  my  simple  creed  : 
Still  I  must  go  and  weed 

Hard  in  my  garden. 

TO    MY   MISTRESS 

COUNTESS,  I  see  the  flying  year, 
And  feel  how  Time  is  wasting  here  : 
Ay,  more,  he  soon  his  worst  will  do, 
And  garner  all  your  roses  too. 


It  pleases  Time  to  fold  his  wings 
Around  our  best  and  fairest  things  ; 
He  '11  mar  your  blooming  cheek,  as  no\r 
He  stamps  his  mark  upon  my  brow. 

The  same  mute  planets  rise  and  shine 
To  rule  your  days  and  nights  as  mine  : 
Once  I  was  young  and  gay,  and,  see .  .   . 
What  I  am  now  you  soon  will  be. 

And  yet  I  boast  a  certain  charm 
That  shields  me  from  your  worst  alarm  ; 
And  bids  me  gaze,  with  front  sublime, 
On  all  these  ravages  of  Time. 

You  boast  a  gift  to  charm  the  eyes, 
I  boast  a  gift  that  Time  defies  : 
For  mine  will  still  be  mine,  and  last 
When  all  your  pride  of  beauty 's  past. 

My  gift  may  long  embalm  the  lures 
Of  eyes  —  ah,  sweet  to  me  as  yours  ! 
For  ages  hence  the  great  and  good 
Will  judge  you  as  I  choose  they  should. 

In  days  to  come,  the  peer  or  clown, 
With  whom  I  still  shall  win  renown, 
Will  only  know  that  you  were  fair 
Because  I  chanced  to  say  you  were. 

Proud  Lad}'  !     Scornful  beauty  mocks 
At  aged  heads  and  silver  locks  ; 
But  think  awhile  before  you  fly, 
Or  spurn  a  poet  such  as  I. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  THE  CUP- 
BOARD 

THE  characters  of  great  and  small 

Come  ready-made,  we  can't  bespeak  one  ; 
Their  sides  are  many,  too,  and  all 

(Except  ourselves)  have  got  a  weak  one. 
Some  sanguine  people  love  for  life, 

Some  love  their  hobby  till  it  flings  them. 
How  many  love  a  pretty  wife 

For  love  of  the  eclat  she  brings  them  ! 

A  little  to  relieve  my  mind 

I  've  thrown  off  this  disjointed  chatter, 
But  more  because  I  'm  disinclin'd 

To  enter  on  a  painful  matter  : 
Once  I  was  bashful ;  I  '11  allow 

I  've  blush'd  for  words  untimely  spokec  j 
I  still  am  rather  shy,  and  now  .  .  . 

And  now  the  ice  is  fairly  broken. 


468 


ELEGANT!^ 


We  all  have  secrets  :  you  have  one 

Which  may  n't  be  quite  your  charming 

spouse's  ; 
We  all  lock  up  a  skeleton 

In  some  grim  chamber  of  our  houses  ; 
Familiars,  who  exhaust  their  days 

And  nights  in  probing  where  our  smart 

is, 
And  who,  excepting  spiteful  ways, 

Are  "silent,  unassuming  parties." 

We  hug  this  phantom  we  detest, 

Rarely  we  let  it  cross  our  portals  ; 
It  is  a  most  exacting  guest  : 

Now,  are  we  not  afflicted  mortals  ? 
Your  neighbor  Gay,  that  jovial  wight, 

As  Dives  rich,  and  brave  as  Hector,  — 
Poor  Gay  steals  twenty  times  a  night, 

On  shaking  knees,  to  see  his  spectre. 

Old  Dives  fears  a  pauper  fate, 
So  hoarding  is  his  ruling  passion  : 

Some  gloomy  souls  anticipate 

A  waistcoat  straiter  than  the  fashion  ! 


She  childless  pines,  that  lonely  wife, 
And  secret  tears  are  bitter  shedding  ; 

Hector  may  tremble  all  his  life, 

And  die,  —  but  not  of  that  he  's  dreading 

Ah  me,  the  World  !  —  how  fast  it  spins  ! 

The  beldams  dance,  the  caldron  bubbles  ; 
They  shriek,  they  stir  it  for  our  sins, 

And  we  must  drain  it  for  our  troubles. 
We  toil,  we  groan  ;  the  cry  for  love 

Mounts  iip  from  this  poor  seething  city, 
And  yet  I  know  we  have  above 

A  FATHER  infinite  in  pity. 

When  Beauty  smiles,  when  Sorrow  weeps, 

Where  sunbeams  play,   where   shadows 

darken, 
One  inmate  of  our  dwelling  keeps 

Its  ghastly  carnival  ;  but  hearken  ! 
How  dry  the  rattle  of  the  bones  ! 

That  sound  was  not  to  make  you  start 

meant  : 
Stand  by  !     Your  humble  servant  owns 

The  Tenant  of  this  Dark  Apartment. 


MY   LORD   TOMNODDY 

MY  Lord  Tomnoddy  's  the  son  of  an  Earl  ; 
His  hair  is  straight,  but  his  whiskers  curl  : 
His  Lordship's  forehead  is  far  from  wide, 
But  there  's  plenty  of  room  for  the  brains 

inside. 

He  writes  his  name  with  indifferent  ease, 
He  's  rather  uncertain  about  the  "  d's  ; " 
But  what  does  it  matter,  if  three  or  one, 
To  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son  ? 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  to  college  went  ; 
Much  time  he  lost,  much  money  he  spent; 
Rules,  and  windows,  and  heads,  he  broke  — 
Authorities  wink'd  —  young  men  will  joke  ! 
He  never  peep'd  inside  of  a  book  : 
In  two  years'  time  a  degree  he  took, 
And   the  newspapers  vaunted    the  honors 

won 
By  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  came  out  in  the  world  : 
Waists  were  tighten'd  and  ringlets  curl'd. 
Virgins  langnish'd,  and  matrons  smil'd  — 
T  is  true,  his  Lordship  is  rather  wild  ; 


In  very  queer  places  he  spends  his  life  ; 
There  's  talk  of  some  children  by  nobody's 

wife  — 
But  we  must  n't  look   close   into  what   is 

done 
By  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  imtst  settle  down  — 
There  's  a  vacant  seat  m  the  family  town  ! 
('Tis  time    he  should    sow  his    eccentric 

oats)  — 

He  has  n't  the  wit  to  apply  for  votes  : 
He  cannot  e'en  learn  his  election  speech, 
Three  phrases  he  speaks,  a  mistake  in  each  ? 
And  then  breaks  down  —  but  the  borough 

is  won 
For  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  prefers  the  Guards, 

(The  House  is  a  bore)  so,  it 's  on  the  cards  ! 

My  Lord  's  a  Lieutenant  at  twenty-three, 

A  Captain  at  twenty-six  is  he  : 

He  never  drew  sword,  except  on  drill  ; 

The  tricks  of  parade  he  has  learnt  but  ill  ? 

A  full-blown  Colonel  at  thirtv-one 

Is  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son  ! 


BROUGH  —  CALVERLEY 


469 


My  Lord  Tomnoddy  is  thirty-four  ; 
The  Earl  can  last  but  a  few  years  more. 
My  Lord  in  the  Peers  will  take  his  place  : 
Her  Majesty's  councils  his  words  will  grace. 


Office  he  '11  hold,  and  patronage  sway  ; 
Fortunes  and  lives  he  will  vote  away  ; 
And  what  are  his  qualifications  ?  —  ONE  ! 
He  's  the  Earl  of  Fitzdotterel's  eldest  son. 


Stuart 


COMPANIONS 

A   TALE   OF   A   GRANDFATHER 

1  KNOW  not  of  what  we  ponder'd 
Or  made  pretty  pretence  to  talk, 

As,  her  hand  within  mine,  we  wander'd 
Tow'rd  the  pool  by  the  lime-tree  walk, 

While  the  dew  fell  in  showers  from  the 

passion  flowers 
And  the  blush-rose  bent  on  her  stalk. 

I  cannot  recall  her  figure  : 

Was  it  regal  as  Juno's  own  ? 
Or  only  a  trifle  bigger 

Thau  the  elves  who  surround  the  throne 
Of  the  Faery  Queen,  and  are  seen,  I  ween, 

By  mortals  in  dreams  alone  ? 

What  her  eyes  were  like  I  know  not  : 
Perhaps  they  were  blurr'd  with  tears  ; 

And  perhaps  in  yon  skies  there  glow  not 
(On  the  contrary)  clearer  spheres. 

No  !  as  to  her  eyes  I  am  just  as  wise 
As  you  or  the  cat,  my  dears. 

Her  teeth,  I  presume,  were  "  pearly  :  " 
But  which  was  she,  brunette  or  blonde  ? 

Her  hair,  was  it  quaintly  curly, 
Or  as  straight  as  a  beadle's  wand  ? 

That  I  fail'd  to  remark  :  it  was  rather  dark 
And  shadowy  round  the  pond. 

Then  the  hand  that  repos'd  so  snugly 
In  mine,  —  was  it  plump  or  spare  ? 

SVas  the  countenance  fair  or  ugly  ? 
Nay,  children,  you  have  me  there  ! 

My  eyes  were  p'haps  blurr'd  ;  and  besides 

I'd  heard 
That  it 's  horribly  rude  to  stare. 

And  I.  —  was  I  brusque  and  surly  ? 

Or  oppressively  bland  and  fond  ? 
Was  I  partial  to  rising  early  ? 

Or  why  did  we  twain  abscond, 


When  nobody  knew,  from  the  public  view 
To  prowl  by  a  misty  pond  ? 

What  pass'd,  what  was  felt  or  spoken,  — 

Whether  anything  pass'd  at  all,  — 
And  whether  the  heart  was  broken 
.   That  beat  under  that  shelt'ring  shawl,  — 
(If  shawl  she  had  on,  which  I  doubt),  — 

has  gone, 
Yes,  gone  from  me  past  recall. 

Was  I  haply  the  lady's  suitor  ? 

Or  her  uncle  ?     I  can't  make  out ; 
Ask  your  governess,  dears,  or  tutor. 

For  myself,  I  'm  in  hopeless  doubt 
As   to  why  we  were  there,  who  on  earth 
we  were, 

And  what  this  is  all  about. 

BALLAD 

PART   I 

THE  auld  wife  sat  at  her  ivied  door, 
{Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 

A  thing  she  had  frequently  done  before  ; 
And  her  spectacles  lay  on  her  apron' d 
knees. 

The  piper  he  pip'd  on  the  hill-top  high, 

{Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
Till  the  cow  said,  "I  die,  "    and  the  goose 

asked  «  Why  ?  " 

And  the  dog  said  nothing,  but  search'd 
for  fleas. 

The  farmer  he  strode  through  the  square 

farmyard  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
His  last  brew  of  ale  was  a  trifle  hard, 
The  connection  of  which  with  the  plot 
one  sees. 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  frank  blue  eyes; 
(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 


470 


ELEGANT!^ 


She  hears  the  rooks  caw  in  the  windy  skies, 
As  she  sits  at  her  lattice  and  shells  her 
peas. 

The  farmer's  daughter  hath  ripe  red  lips  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
If  you  try  to  approach  her  away  she  skips 

Over   tables   and   chairs  with   apparent 
ease. 

The   farmer's  daughter  hath  soft  brown 

hair  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
And  I  met  with  a  ballad,  I  can't  say  where, 
Which    wholly  consisted    of    lines   like 
these. 

PART   II 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  dimpled 
cheeks, 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
And  spake  not  a  word.    While  a  lady  speaks 

There  is  hope,  but  she  did  n't  even  sneeze. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  crimson 
cheeks  ; 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
She  gave  up  mending  her  father's  breeks, 

And  let  the  cat  roll  in  her  best  chemise. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  'neath  her  burning 

cheeks, 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
And  gaz'd  at  the  piper  for  thirteen  weeks  ; 
Then  she  follow'd  him  out  o'er  the  misty 
leas. 

Her  sheep  follow'd  her,  as  their  tails  did 

them, 

(Butter  and  eggs  and  a  pound  of  cheese) 
And  this  song  is  consider'd  a  perfect  gem  ; 
And  as  to  the  meaning,  it 's  what  you 
please. 

ON    THE   BRINK 

I  WATCH'D  her  as  she  stoop'd  to  pluck 
A  wild  flower  in  her  hair  to  twine  ; 
And  wish'd  that  it  had  been  my  luck 
To  call  her  mine  ; 

Anon  I  heard  her  rate  with  mad, 

Mad  words  her  babe  within  its  cot, 
And  felt  particularly  glad 
That  it  had  not. 


I  knew  (such  subtle  brains  have  men  !) 

That  she  was  uttering  what  she  should  n't ; 
And    thought    that    I    would    chide,   and 

then 
I  thought  I  would  n't. 

Few  could  have  gaz'd  upon  that  face, 

Those  pouting  coral  lips,  and  chided  : 
A  Rhadamanthus,  in  my  place, 
Had  done  as  I  did. 

For  wrath  with  which  our  bosoms  glow 

Is  chain'd  there  oft  by  Beauty's  spell  ; 
And,  more  than  that,  I  did  not  know 
The  widow  well. 

So  the  harsh  phrase  pass'd  unreprov'd  : 

Still  mute  —  (O  brothers,  was  it  sin  ?)  — • 
I  drank,  unutterably  mov'd, 
Her  beauty  in. 

And  to  myself  I  murmur'd  low, 

As  on  her  upturn 'd  face  and  dress 
The     moonlight    fell,    "  Would    she     say 

No,— 
By  chance,  or  Yes  ?  " 

She  stood  so  calm,  so  like  a  ghost, 

Betwixt  me  and  that  magic  moon, 
That  I  already  was  almost 
A  finish'd  coon. 

But  when  she  caught  adroitly  up 

And  sooth'd  with  smiles  her  little  daugh- 
ter ; 

And  gave  it,  if  I  'm  right,  a  sup 
Of  barley-water  ; 

And,    crooning    still    the    strange,    sweet 

lore 

Which  only  mothers'  tongues  can  utter, 
Snow'd  with  deft  hand  the  sugar  o'er 
Its  bread-and-butter  ; 

And  kiss'd  it  clingingly  (ah,  why 

Don't   women  do  these   things  in  pri- 
vate ?)  — 
I  felt  that  if  I  lost  her,  I 

Should  not  survive  it. 

And    from    my   mouth    the    words    nigh 

flew,  — 

The  past,  the  future,  I  forgat  'em,  — 
"  Oh,  if  you  'd  kiss  me  as  you  do 
That  thankless  atom  ! " 


CALVERLEY—  ASHBY-STERRY 


47 1 


But  this  thought  came  ere  yet  I  spake, 

And  .froze  the  sentence  on  my  lips  : 
"  They  err  who  marry  wives  that  make 
Those  little  slips." 

It  came  like  some  familiar  rhyme, 
Some  copy  to  my  boyhood  set ; 
And  that 's  perhaps  the  reason  I  'm 
Unmarried  yet. 


Would  she  have  own'd  how  pleas'd  she  was, 

And  told  her  love  with  widow's  pride  ? 
I  never  found  out  that,  because 
I  never  tried. 

Be  kind  to  babes  and  beasts  and  birds, 

Hearts  may  be  hard  though  lips  are  coral ; 
And  angry  words  are  angry  words  : 
And  that 's  the  moral. 


A  MARLOW   MADRIGAL 

OH,  Bisham  Banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Quarry  Woods  are  green, 
And  pure  and  sparkling  is  the  air, 

Enchanting  is  the  scene  ! 
I  love  the  music  of  the  weir, 

As  swift  the  stream  runs  down, 
For  oh,  the  water  's  deep  and  clear 

That  flows  by  Marlow  town  ! 

When  London 's  getting  hot  and  dry, 

And  half  the  season  's  done, 
To  Marlow  you  should  quickly  fly, 

And  bask  there  in  the  sun. 
There  pleasant  quarters  you  may  find,  • 

The  "  Angler  "  or  the  "  Crown" 
Will  suit  you  well,  if  you're  inclin'd 

To  stay  in  Marlow  town. 

I  paddle  up  to  Harleyford, 

And  sometimes  I  incline 
To  cushions  take  with  lunch  aboard, 

And  play  with  rod  and  line  ; 
For  in  a  punt  I  love  to  laze, 

And  let  my  face  get  brown  ; 
And  dream  away  the  sunny  days 

By  dear  old  Marlow  town. 

I  go  to  luncheon  at  the  Lawn, 

I  muse,  I  sketch,  I  rhyme  ; 
I  headers  take  at  early  dawn, 

I  list  to  All  Saints'  chime. 
And  in  the  river,  flashing  bright, 

Dull  care  I  strive  to  drown,  — 
And  get  a  famous  appetite 

At  pleasant  Marlow  town. 

So  when  no  longer  London  life 
You  feel  you  can  endure, 


Just  quit  its  noise,  its  whirl,  its  strife, 

And  try  the  "  Marlow  cure.  " 
You  '11  smooth  the  wrinkles  on  your  brow, 

And  scare  away  each  frown,  — 
Feel  young  again  once  more,  1  vow, 

At  quaint  old  Marlow  town. 

Here    Shelley  dream'd   and  thought   and 
wrote, 

And  wander'd  o'er  the  leas  ; 
And  sung  and  drifted  in  his  boat 

Beneath  the  Bisham  trees. 
So  let  me  sing,  although  I  'm  no 

Great  poet  of  renown, 
Of  hours  that  much  too  quickly  go 

At  good  old  Marlow  town  ! 


A   PORTRAIT 

IN  sunny  girlhood's  vernal  life 

She  caused  no  small  sensation, 
But  now  the  modest  English  wife 

To  others  leaves  flirtation. 
She  's  young  still,  lovely,  debonair, 

Although  sometimes  her  features 
Are  clouded  by  a  thought  of  care 

For  those  two  tiny  creatures. 

Each  tiny,  toddling,  mottled  mite 

Asserts  with  voice  emphatic, 
In  lisping  accents,  "  Mite  is  right,  "  — 

Their  rule  is  autocratic  : 
The  song  becomes,  that  charm'd  mankind, 

Their  musical  narcotic, 
And  baby  lips  than  Love,  she  '11  find, 

Are  even  more  despotic. 

Soft  lullaby  when  singing  there, 
And  castles  ever  building, 


472 


ELEGANT!^ 


Their  destiny  she  '11  carve  in  air, 
Bright  with  maternal  gilding  : 

Young  Guy,  a  clever  advocate, 
So  eloquent  and  able  ! 

A  powder'd  wig  upon  his  pate, 
A  coronet  for  Mabel ! 

THE    LITTLE   REBEL 

PRINCESS  of  pretty  pets, 
Tomboy  in  trouserettes, 
Eyes  are  like  violets, 

Gleefully  glancing ! 
Skin  like  an  otter  sleek, 
Nose  like  a  baby  Greek, 
Sweet  little  dimple-cheek, 

Merrily  dancing  ! 

Lark-like,  her  song  it  trills 

Over  the  dale  and  hills. 

Hark,  how  her  laughter  thrills  ! 

Joyously  joking  : 
Yet,  should  she  feel  inclin'd, 
I  fancy  you  will  find, 
She,  like  all  womankind, 

Oft  is  provoking. 

Often  she  stands  on  chairs, 
Sometimes  she  unawares 
Slyly  creeps  up  the  stairs, 
Secretly  hiding  : 


Then  will  this  merry  maid  — 
She  is  of  nought  afraid  — 
Come  down  the  balustrade, 
Saucily  sliding  ! 

Books  she  abominates, 
But  see  her  go  on  skates, 
And  over  five-barr'd  gates 

Fearlessly  scramble  ! 
Climbing  up  apple-trees, 
Barking  her  supple  knees,    . 
Flouting  mamma's  decrees, 

Out  for  a  ramble. 

Now  she  is  good  as  gold, 
Then  she  is  pert  and  bold, 
Minds  not  what  she  is  told, 

Carelessly  tripping. 
She  is  an  April  miss, 
Bounding  to  grief  from  bliss  ; 
Often  she  has  a  kiss,  — 

Sometimes  a  whipping ! 

Naughty  but  best  of  girls, 
Through  life  she  gayly  twirls, 
Shaking  her  sunny  curls, 

Careless  and  joyful. 
Ev'ry  one  on  her  dotes, 
Carolling  merry  notes, 
Pet  in  short  petticoats, 

Truly  tomboyful ! 


FROM 


;THE    PARADISE   OF 
BIRDS" 


BIRDCATCHER'S  SONG 

WHEN  at  close  of  winter's  night 
All  the  insect  world  's  a-wing  ; 

When  anemones  are  white  ; 

When  the  first  Lent  lilies  spring  ; 

When  the  birds  their  troths  do  plight, 
And  all  feather'd  lovers  sing  ; 

Eggs  of  golden  plovers  reach 

In  London  town  a  shilling  each. 

Sweet  it  is  to  see  the  gold 

Brightening  on  the  cowslip  tall  : 

Sweet  to  hear  on  lonely  wold 
Birds  by  dawn  their  lovers  call ; 


Courfljope 

Sweet  to  smell  the  freshening  mould  ; 

But  far  sweeter  than  them  all, 
Flowers,  sweet  breath,  or  songs  of  lovers. 
Are  shilling  eggs  of  golden  plovers. 

Bid  them  pay,  and  men  will  buy 
For  their  palate  magic  taste  ; 

Shift  the  prices,  woman's  eye 

Leaves  the  diamond,  likes  the  paste  ; 

If  the  market  run  not  high, 

Heavenly  nectar  may  go  waste; 

But  each  shilling  paid  discovers 

Fresh  flavor  in  the  eggs  of  plovers. 

ODE — TO  THE  ROC 

O  UNHATCH'D  Bird,  so  high  preferr'df 
As  porter  of  the  Pole, 


WILLIAM  JOHN   COURTHOPE 


473 


Of  beakless  things,  who  have  no  wings, 

Exact  no  heavy  toll. 
If  this  my  song  its  theme  should  wrong, 

The  theme  itself  is  sweet  ; 
Let  others  rhyme  the  unborn  time, 

I  sing  the  Obsolete. 

And  first,  I  praise  the  nobler  traits 

Of  birds  preceding  Noah, 
The  giant  clan,  whose  meat  was  Man, 

Dinornis,  Apteryx,  Moa. 
These,  by  the  hints  we  get  from  prints 

Of  feathers  and  of  feet, 
Excell'd  in  wits  the  later  tits, 

And  so  are  obsolete. 

I  sing  each  race  whom  we  displace 

In  their  primeval  woods, 
While  Gospel  Aid  inspires  Free-Trade 

To  traffic  with  their  goods. 
With  Norman  Dukes  the  still  Sioux 

In  breeding  might  compete  ; 
But  where  men  talk  the  tomahawk 

Will  soon  grow  obsolete. 

I  celebrate  each  perish'd  State  ; 

Great  cities  plough'd  to  loam  ; 
Chaldsean  kings  ;  the  Bulls  with  wings  ; 

Dead  Greece,  and  dying  Rome. 
The  Druids'  shrine  may  shelter  swine, 

Or  stack  the  farmer's  peat  ; 
'T  is  thus  mean  moths  treat  finest  cloths, 

Mean  men  the  obsolete. 

Shall  nought  be  said  of  theories  dead  ? 

The  Ptolemaic  system  ? 
Figure  and  phrase,  that  bent  all  ways 

Duns  Scotus  lik'd  to  twist  'em  ? 
Averrhoes'  thought  ?  and  what  was  taught 

In  Salamanca's  seat  ? 
Sihons  and  Ogs  ?  and  showers  of  frogs  ? 

Sea-serpents  obsolete  ? 

Pillion  and  pack  have  left  their  track  ; 

Dead  is  "  the  Tally-ho  ; " 
Steam  rails  cut  down  each  festive  crown 

Of  the  old  world  and  slow  ; 
Jack-in-the-Green  no  more  is  seen, 

Nor  Maypole  in  the  street ; 
No  mummers  play  on  Christmas-day  ; 

St.  George  is  obsolete. 

0  fancy,  why  hast  thou  let  die 
So  many  a  frolic  fashion  ? 


Doublet  and  hose,  and  powder'd  beaux  ? 

Where  are  thy  songs,  whose  passion 
Turn'd    thought    to    fire    in    knight    and 

squire, 

While  hearts  of  ladies  beat  ? 
Where  thy  sweet  style,   ours,   ours    ere- 

while? 
All  this  is  obsolete. 

In  Auvergne  low  potatoes  grow 

Upon  volcanoes  old  ; 
The  moon,  they  say,  had  her  young  day, 

Though  now  her  heart  is  cold  ; 
Even  so  our  earth,  sorrow  and  mirth, 

Seasons  of  snow  and  heat, 
Check'd  by  her  tides  in  silence  glides 

To  become  obsolete. 

The  astrolabe  of  every  babe 

Reads,  in  its  fatal  sky, 
"  Man's  largest  room  is  the  low  tomb  — 

Ye  all  are  born  to  die." 
Therefore  this  theme,  O  Birds,  I  deem 

The  noblest  we  may  treat  ; 
The  final  cause  of  Nature's  laws 

Is  to  grow  obsolete. 

IN   PRAISE   OF   GILBERT   WHITE 

IF  Transmigration  e'er  compel 
A  bird  to  live  with  human  heart, 

I  pray  that  bird  have  choice  to  dwell 
From  human  ills  apart. 

When  swallows   through  the  world  went 
forth, 

And  watch'd  affairs  in  every  nation, 
They  found  for  ever,  south  and  north, 

Vanity  and  Vexation. 

So  let  him  dwell  not  in  the  Town  — 

There  Trade  and  Penury  roar  and  weep: 

But  'neath  the  silence  of  a  down 
Disturb'd  by  grazing  sheep. 

There,  like  his  brook,  his  life  shall  glide, 
Far  from  State-party,  plot,  and  treason. 

Nor  feel  the  flow  of  Fortune's  tide, 
Beyond  the  change  of  season. 

There  he  shall  Learning  woo,  and  Art, 

Without  a  rival  to  unthrone  ; 
Nor  seek  to  pain  another's  heart, 

Since  he  may  please  his  own. 


474 


ELEGANT!^ 


Books  he  shall  read  in  hill  and  tree  ; 

The  flowers  his  weather  shall  portend, 
The  birds  his  moralists  shall  be, 

And  everything  his  friend. 


Such  man  in  England  I  have  seen  ; 

He  mov'd  my  heart  with  fresh  delight ; 
And  had  I  not  the  swallow  been, 

I  had  been  Gilbert  White. 


it  f  retericft  goifocfc 


THE   SIX   CARPENTERS'   CASE 
(/  Smith,  L.  C.  133,  7th  Ed.) 

THIS  case  befell  at  four  of  the  clock 

(now  listeneth  what  I  shall  say), 
and  the  year  was  the  seventh  of  James  the 

First, 
on  a  fine  September  day. 

The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
what  trespass  shall  be  db  initio. 

It  was  Thomas  Newman  and  five  his  feres 
(three  more  would  have  made  them  nine), 
and  they  entered  into  John  Vaux's  house, 
that  had  the  Queen's  Head  to  sign. 
The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
what  trespass  shall  be  db  initio. 

They  called  anon  for  a  quart  of  wine 

(they  were  carpenters  all  by  trade), 
and  they  drank  about  till  they  drank  it 

out, 

and  when  they  had  drunk  they  paid. 
The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
what  trespass  shall  be  db  initio. 

One  spake  this  word  in  John  Bidding's 

ear 
(white  manchets  are  sweet  and  fine) : 


"  Fair  sir,  we  are  fain  of  a  penn'orth  of 

bread 
and  another  quart  of  wine." 

The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
what  trespass  shall  be  db  initio. 

Full  lightly  thereof  they  did  eat  and  drink 

(to  drink  is  iwis  no  blame). 
"  Now  tell  me  eight  pennies,"  quoth  Mas- 
ter Vaux  ; 
but  they  would  not  pay  the  same. 

The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
what  trespass  shall  be  db  initio. 

"  Ye  have  trespassed  with  force  and  arms. 

ye  knaves 

(the  six  be  too  strong  for  me), 
but  your    tortious    entry  shall    cost  you 

dear, 

and  that  the  King's  Court  shall  see. 
The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

nought  low, 
your  trespass  was  wrought  db  initio." 

Sed  per  totam  curiam  't  was  well  resolved 

(note,  reader,  this  difference) 
that  in  mere  not  doing  no  trespass  is, 
and  John  Vaux  went  empty  thence. 
The  birds  on  the  bough  sing  loud  and 

sing  low, 
no  trespass  was  here  al  initio. 


EDWARD   LEAR 


475 


"THE   LAND   OF  WONDER-WANDER" 


Sear 


THE  JUMBLIES 

THEY  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did  ; 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea  ; 
In  spite  of  all  their  friends  could  say, 
On  a  winter's  morn,  on  a  stormy  day, 

In  a  sieve  they  went  to  sea. 
And   when  the   sieve    turn'd    round    and 

round, 

And  every  one  cried,  "  You  '11  be  drown'd  ! " 
They  call'd  aloud,  "  Our  sieve  ain't  big  : 
But  we  don't  care  a  button  ;  we  don't  care 

a  fig: 

In  a  sieve  we  '11  go  to  sea  !  " 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the  lands  where  the  Jumblies 

live  : 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  hands 

are  blue  ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 

They  sail'd  away  in  a  sieve,  they  did, 

In  a  sieve  they  sail'd  so  fast, 
With  only  a  beautiful  pea-green  veil 
Tied  with  a  ribbon,  by  way  of  a  sail, 

To  a  small  tobacco-pipe  mast. 
And  every  one  said  who  saw  them  go, 
"  Oh  !  won't  they  be  soon  upset,  you  know  : 
For  the   sky   is   dark,  and   the  voyage  is 

long  ; 

And,   happen  what    may,   it 's   extremely 
wrong 

In  a  sieve  to  sail  so  fast." 

The  water  it  soon  came  in,  it  did  ; 
The  water  it  soon  came  in  : 

So,  to  keep  them  dry,  they  wrapp'd  their 
feet 

In  a  pinky  paper  all  folded  neat : 

And  they  fasten'd  it  down  with  a  pin. 

And  they  pass'd  the  night  in  a  crockery- 
jar ; 

And  each  of  them   said,  "  How  wise  we 
are! 

Though  the  sky  be  dark,  and  the  voyage  be 
long, 


Yet  we  never  can  think  we  were  rash  01 

wrong, 
While  round  in  our  sieve  we  spin." 

And  all  night  long  they  sail'd  away  ; 

And,  when  the  sun  went  down, 
They  whistled  and  warbled  a  moony  song 
To  the  echoing  sound  of  a  coppery  gong, 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown, 
"  O  Tirnballoo  !  how  happy  we  are 
When  we  live  in  a  sieve  and  a  crockery- 
jar! 

And  all  night  long,  in  the  moonlight  pale, 
We  sail  away  with  a  pea-green  sail 

In  the  shade  of  the  mountains  brown." 

They  sail'd  to  the  Western  Sea,  they  did,  — 

To  a  land  all  cover'd  with  trees  : 
And  they  bought  an  owl,  and  a  useful  cart, 
And  a  pound  of  rice,  and  a  cranberry-tart. 

And  a  hive  of  silvery  bees  ; 
And  they  bought  a  pig,  and  some  green 

jackdaws, 

And  a  lovely  monkey  with  lollipop  paws, 
And  forty  bottles  of  ring-bo-ree, 
And  no  end  of  Stilton  cheese  : 

And  in  twenty  years  they  all  came  back,  — 

In  twenty  years  or  more  ; 
And  every  one  said,  "  How  tall  they  've 

grown  ! 
For  they  've  been  to  the  Lakes,  and  the  Tor- 

rible  Zone, 

And  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
And   they   drank   their  health,   and   gave 

them  a  feast 

Of  dumplings  made  of  beautiful  yeast  ; 
And  every  one  said,  "  If  we  only  live, 
We,  too,  will  go  to  sea  in  a  sieve, 
To  the  hills  of  the  Chankly  Bore." 
Far  and  few,  far  and  few, 

Are  the   lands  where  the  Jumblies 

live  : 
Their  heads  are  green,  and  their  handa 

are  blue  ; 
And  they  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve. 


"THE  LAND   OF  WONDER-WANDER 


IDtHiam 


TOPSY-TURVY  WORLD 

IF  the  butterfly  courted  the  bee, 

And  the  owl  the  porcupine  ; 
If  churches  were  built  in  the  sea, 

And  three  times  one  was  nine  ; 
If  the  pony  rode  his  master, 

If  the  buttercups  ate  the  cows, 
If  the  cats  had  the  dire  disaster 

To  be  worried,  sir,  by  the  mouse  ; 
If  mamma,  sir,  sold  the  baby 

To  a  gypsy  for  half  a  crown  ; 
If  a  gentleman,  sir,  was  a  lady,  — 

The  world  would  be  Upside-down  ! 
If  any  or  all  of  these  wonders 

Should  ever  come  about, 
I  should  not  consider  them  blunders, 

For  I  should  be  Inside-out ! 

Chorus 
Ba-ba,  black  wool, 

Have  you  any  sheep  ? 
Yes,  sir,  a  packfull,         • 

Creep,  mouse,  creep  ! 
Four-and-twenty  little  maids 

Hanging  out  the  pie, 
Out  jump'd  the  honey-pot, 

Guy  Fawkes,  Guy  ! 
Cross  latch,  cross  latch, 

Sit  and  spin  the  fire  ; 
When  the  pie  was  open'd, 

The  bird  was  on  the  brier  ! 

POLLY 

BROWN  eyes, 

Straight  nose  ; 
Dirt  pies, 

Rumpled  clothes  ; 

Torn  books, 

Spoilt  toys  ; 
Arch  looks, 

Unlike  a  boy's  ; 

Little  rages, 

Obvious  arts  ; 
(Three  her  age  is,) 

Cakes,  tarts  ; 


Falling  down 

Off  chairs  ; 
Breaking  crown 

Down  stairs ; 

Catching  flies 
On  the  pane  ; 

Deep  sighs,  — 
Cause  not  plain  ; 

Bribing  you 

With  kisses 
For  a  few 

Farthing  blisses  ; 

Wide  awake, 

As  you  hear, 
"  Mercy 's  sake, 

Quiet,  dear  I " 

New  shoes, 

New  frock, 
Vague  views 

Of  what 's  o'clock, 

When  it 's  time 
To  go  to  bed, 

And  scorn  sublime 
For  what  it  said  ; 

Folded  hands, 
Saying  prayers, 

Understands 
Not,  nor  cares  ; 

Thinks  it  odd, 
Smiles  away  ; 

Yet  may  God 
Hear  her  pray ! 

Bedgown  white, 

Kiss  Dolly  ; 
Goodnight !  — 

That 's  Polly. 

Fast  asleep, 

As  you  see  ; 
Heaven  keep 

My  girl  for  me  ! 


WILLIAM   BRIGHTY   RANDS 


477 


DRESSING   THE    DOLL 

THIS  is  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll  :  — 
You  may  make  her  a  shepherdess,  the  Doll, 
If  you  give  her  a  crook  with  a  pastoral  hook, 
But  this  is  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll. 

Chorus 

Bless  the  Doll,  you  may  press  the  Doll, 
But  do  not  crumple  and  mess  the  Doll ! 
This  is  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll. 

First,  you  observe,  her  little  chemise, 
As  white  as  milk,  with  ruches  of  silk  ; 
And  the  little  drawers  that  cover  her  knees, 
As  sne  sits  or  stands,  with  golden  bands, 
And  lace  in  beautiful  filagrees. 
Chorus 

Now  these  are  the  bodies  :  she  has  two, 
One  of  pink,  with  rouches  of  blue, 
And  sweet  white  lace  ;  be  careful,  do  ! 
And  one  of  green,  with  buttons  of  sheen, 
Buttons  and  bands  of  gold,  I  mean, 
With  lace  on  the  border  in  lovely  order, 
The  most  expensive  we  can  afford  her  ! 
Chorus 

Then,  with  black  at  the  border,  jacket 

And  this  —  and  this  —  she  will  not  lack  it  ; 

Skirts  ?    Why,  there  are  skirts,  of  course, 

And  shoes  and  stockings  we  shall  enforce, 

With  a  proper  bodice,  in  the  proper  place, 

(Stays  that  lace  have  had  their  days 

And  made  their  martyrs)  ;  likewise  garters, 

All  entire.     But  our  desire 

Is  to  show  you  her  night  attire, 

At  least  a  part  of  it.     Pray  admire 

This  sweet  white  thing  that  she  goes  to 

bed  in  ! 

It 's  not  the  one  that 's  made  for  her  wed- 
ding : 

That  is  special,  a  new  design, 
Made  with  a  charm  and  a  countersign, 
Three  times  three  and  nine  times  nine  : 
These  are  only  her  usual  clothes. 
Look,  there  's  a  wardrobe  !  gracious  knows 
It 's  pretty  enough,  as  far  as  it  goes  ! 

So  you  see  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll  : 
You   might  make  her  a  shepherdess,  the 

Doll, 

If  you  gave  her  a  crook  with  pastoral  hook, 
With  sheep,  and  a  shed,  and  a  shallow  brook, 
And  all  that,  out  of  the  poetry-book. 


Chorus 

Bless  the  Doll,  you  may  press  the  Doll, 
But  do  not  crumple  and  mess  the  Doll  ! 
This  is  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll  ; 
If  you  had  not  seen,  could  you  guess  the 
Doll? 

I   SAW   A  NEW   WORLD 

I  SAW  a  new  world  in  my  dream, 
Where  all  the  folks  alike  did  seem  : 
There  was  no  Child,  there  was  no  Mother, 
There  was  no  Change,  there  was  no  Other. 

For  everything  was  Same,  the  Same  ; 
There  was  no  praise,  there  was  no  blame  ; 
There  was  neither  Need  nor  Help  for  it ; 
There  was  nothing  fitting  or  unfit. 

Nobody  laugh'd,  nobody  wept  ; 
None  grew  weary,  so  none  slept  ; 
There  was  nobody  born,  and  nobody  wed  ; 
This  world  was  a  world  of  the  living-dead. 

I  long'd  to  hear  the  Time-Clock  strike 
In  the  world  where  people  were  all  alike  ; 
I  hated  Same,  I  hated  Forever  ; 
I  long'd  to  say  Neither,  or  even  Never. 

I  long'd  to  mend,  I  long'd  to  make  ; 

I  long'd  to  give,  I  long'd  to  take  ; 

I  long'd  for  a  change,  whatever  came  after, 

I  long'd  for  crying,  I  long'd  for  laughter. 

At  last  I  heard  the  Time-Clock  boom, 
And  woke  from  my  dream  in  my  little  room  ; 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  my  Mother  was 

nigh, 
And  I  heard  the  Baby  crow  and  cry. 

And  I  thought  to  myself,  How  nice  it  is 
For  me  to  live  in  a  world  like  this, 
Where  things  can  happen,  and  clocks  can 

strike, 
And  none  of  the  people  are  made  alike  ; 

Where  Love  wants  this,   and  Pain  wants 

that, 

Where  all  our  hearts  want  Tit  for  Tat 
In  the  jumbles  we  make  with  our  heads  and 

our  hands, 

In  a  world  that  nobody  understands, 
But  with  work,  and  hope,  and  the  right  to 

call 
Upon  Him  who  sees  it  and  knows  us  all  1 


"THE  LAND   OF  WONDER- WANDER " 


Cfjarkg  aiutlnitigc 


("LEWIS  CARROLL") 


JABBERWOCKY 


T  WAS  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe  ; 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves, 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 

"  Beware  the  Jabberwock,  my  son  ! 

The  jaws  that  bite,  the  claws  that  catch  ! 
Beware  the  Jubjub  bird,  and  shun 

The  frumious  Bandersnatch  !  " 

He  took  his  vorpal  sword  in  hand  : 

Long  time  the  manxome  foe  he  sought  — 

So  rested  he  by  the  Tumtum  tree, 
And  stood  awhile  in  thought. 

And  as  in  uffish  thought  he  stood, 
The  Jabberwock,  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Came  whiffling  through  the  tulgey  wood, 
And  burbled  as  it  came  ! 

One,  two  !     One,  two  !     And  through  and 
through 

The  vorpal  blade  went  snicker-snack  ! 
He  left  it  dead,  and  with  its  head 

He  went  galumphing  back. 

"  And  hast  thou  slain  the  Jabberwock  ? 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  beamish  boy  ! 
O  frabjous  day  !     Callooh  !     Callay  !  " 

He  chortled  in  his  joy. 

'T  was  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves 
Did  gyre  and  gimble  in  the  wabe  ; 

All  mimsy  were  the  borogoves, 
And  the  mome  raths  outgrabe. 


FROM  "THE   HUNTING   OF  THE 
SNARK" 

THE  BAKER'S  TALE 

THEY    rous'd    him   with     muffins  —  they 

rous'd  him  with  ice  — 
They    rous'd    him   with    mustard    and 

cress  — 
They  rous'd  him  with   jam  and  judicious 

advice  — 
They  set  him  conundrums  to  guess. 


When  at  length  he  sat  up  and  was  able  to 

speak, 

His  sad  story  he  offer'd  to  tell  ; 
And    the    Bellman  cried   "  Silence  !     Not 

even  a  shriek  !  " 
And  excitedly  tingled  his  bell. 

There  was  silence  supreme  !    Not  a  shriek. 

not  a  scream, 

Scarcely  even  a  howl  or  a  groan, 
As  the  man  they  call'd  "  Ho  !  "  told  his 

story  of  woe 
In  an  antediluvian  tone. 

"  My   father   and    mother    were    honest, 

though  poor  —  " 
"Skip  all  that!"  cried  the  Bellman  in 

haste. 
"  If  it  once  becomes  dark,  there  's  no  chance 

of  a  Snark  — 
We  have  hardly  a  minute  to  waste  ! " 

"  I  skip  forty  years,"  said  the  Baker,  in  tears, 
"  And  proceed  without  further  remark 

To  the  day  when  you  took  me  aboard  of 

your  ship 
To  help  you  in  hunting  the  Snark. 

"  A  dear  uncle  of  mine  (after  whom  I  was 

nam'd) 

Remark'd,  when  I  bade  him  farewell  —  " 
"  Oh,  skip  your  dear  uncle  !  "  the  Bellman 

exclaim'd, 
As  he  angrily  tingled  his  bell. 

"  He  remark'd  to  me  then,"  said  that  mild- 
est of  men, 
"'If  your  Snark  be  a  Snark,   that  is 

right  : 
Fetch  it  home   by  all  means  —  you  may 

serve  it  with  greens, 
And  it 's  handy  for  striking  a  light. 

"  '  You  may  seek  it  with  thimbles  —  and 

seek  it  with  care  ; 

You  may  hunt  it  with  forks  and  hope  ; 
You  may  threaten  its  life  with  a  railway- 
share  ; 

You    may   charm    it   with   smiles    and 
soap  — '  " 


CHARLES   LUTWIDGE  DODGSON 


479 


("That's  exactly  the  method,"  the  Bell- 
man bold 

In  a  hasty  parenthesis  cried, 
"  That  'a   exactly  the  way  I  have  always 

been  told 

That  the  capture  of  Snarks  should  be 
tried  ! "  ) 

* '  But  oh,  beamish  nephew,  beware  of  the 
day, 

If  your  Snark  be  a  Boojum  !     For  then 
You  will  softly  and  suddenly  vanish  away, 

And  never  be  met  with  again  ! ' 

"It  is  this,  it  is  this  that  oppresses  my 

soul, 

When  I  think  of  my  uncle's  last  words  : 
And  my  heart  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  a 

bowl 
Brimming  over  with  quivering  curds  ! 

"  It  is  this,  it  is  this  —  "     "  We  have  had 

that  before  ! " 

The  Bellman  indignantly  said. 
And  the  Baker    replied,  "  Let  me  say  it 

once  more. 
It  is  this,  it  is  this  that  I  dread  t 

"  I  engage  with  the  Snark  —  every  night 

after  dark  — 

In  a  dreamy,  delirious  fight  : 
I  serve  it  with  greens  in  those  shadowy 

scenes, 
And  I  use  it  for  striking  a  light : 


"  But  if  ever  I  meet  with  a  Boojum,  that  day, 
In  a  moment  (of  this  I  am  sure), 

I  shall  softly  and  suddenly  vanish  away  — 
And  the  notion  I  cannot  endure  ! " 

OF   ALICE   IN   WONDERLANF 

A  BOAT,  beneath  a  sunny  sky, 
Lingering  onward  dreamily 
In  an  evening  of  July  ; 

Children  three  that  nestle  near, 
Eager  eye  and  willing  ear, 
Pleased  a  simple  tale  to  hear ;  — 

Long  has  paled  that  sunny  sky  : 
Echoes  fade  and  memories  die, 
Autumn  frosts  have  slain  July. 

Still  she  haunts  me,  phantom- wise, 
Alice  moving  under  skies 
Never  seen  by  waking  eyes. 

Children  yet,  the  tale  to  hear, 
Eager  eye  and  willing  ear, 
Lovingly  shall  nestle  near. 

In  a  Wonderland  they  lie, 
Dreaming  as  the  days  go  by, 
Dreaming  as  the  summers  die  : 

Ever  drifting  down  the  stream, 
Lingering  in  the  golden  gleam,  — 
Life,  what  is  it  but  a  dream  ? 


Ill 
CLOSE   OF  THE   ERA 

(INTERMEDIARY  PERIOD) 
1875-1895 

DEATH  OF  ALFRED,   LORD  TENNYSON:  OCTOBER  6,  1892 
ALFRED   AUSTIN   APPOINTED   LAUREATE:  JANUARY  i,  1896 


IMPRESSION 


IN  these  restrained  and  careful  times 
Our  knowledge  petrifies  our  rhymes  ; 
Ah  !  for  that  reckless  fire  men  had 
When  it  was  witty  to  be  mad, 

When  wild  conceits  were  piled  in  scores, 
And  lit  by  flaring  metaphors, 
When  all  was  crazed  and  out  of  tune,  — 
Yet  throbbed  with  music  of  the  moon. 

If  we  could  dare  to  write  as  ill 
As  some  whose  voices  haunt  us  still. 
Even  we,  perchance,  might  call  our  own 
Their  deep  enchanting  undertone. 

We  are  too  diffident  and  nice, 
Too  learned  and  too  over-wise, 
Too  much  afraid  of  faults  to  be 
The  flutes  of  bold  sincerity. 


1894. 


For,  as  this  sweet  life  passes  by, 
We  blink  and  nod  with  critic  eye  ; 
We  've  no  words  rude  enough  to  give 
Its  charm  so  frank  and  fugitive. 

The  green  and  scarlet  of  the  Park, 
The  undulating  streets  at  dark, 
The  brown  smoke  blown  across  the  blue, 
This  colored  city  we  walk  through  ;  — 

The  pallid  faces  full  of  pain, 
The  field-smell  of  the  passing  wain, 
The  laughter,  longing,  perfume,  strife, 
The  daily  spectacle  of  life  ;  — 

Ah !  how  shall  this  be  given  to  rhyme, 
By  rhymesters  of  a  knowing  time  ? 
Ah !  for  the  age  when  verse  was  glad, 
Being  godlike,  to  be  bad  and  mad. 

EDMUND  GOSSE. 


CLOSE   OF  THE    ERA 

(INTERMEDIARY  PERIOD) 
RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


A   DEAD   LETTER 


I  DREW  it  from  its  china  tomb  ;  — 
It  came  out  feebly  scented 

With  some  thin  ghost  of  past  perfume 
That  dust  and  days  had  lent  it. 

An  old,  old  letter,  —  folded  still  ! 

To  read  with  due  composure, 
I  sought  the  sun-lit  window-sill, 

Above  the  gray  enclosure, 


in  SDofcgon 


For  idle  mallet,  hoop,  and  ball 
Upon  the  lawn  were  lying  ; 

A  magazine,  a  tumbled  shawl, 

Round  which  the  swifts  were  flying  ; 

And,  tossed  beside  the  Guelder  rose, 
A  heap  of  rainbow  knitting, 

Where,  blinking  in  her  pleased  repose, 
A  Persian  cat  was  sitting. 


That  glimmering  in  the  sultry  haze, 

Faint  flowered,  dimly  shaded, 
Slumbered  like  Goldsmith's  Madam  Blaize, 

Bedizened  and  brocaded. 

A  queer  old  place  !     You  'd  surely  say 
Some  tea-board  garden-maker 

Had  planned  it  in  Dutch  William's  day 
To  please  some  florist  Quaker, 

So  trim  it  was.     The  yew-trees  still, 

With  pious  care  perverted, 
Grew  in  the  same  grim  shapes  ;  and  still 

The  lipless  dolphin  spurted  ; 

Still  in  his  wonted  state  abode 

The  broken-nosed  Apollo  ; 
And  still  the  cypress-arbor  showed 

The  same  umbrageous  hollow. 

Only,  —  as  fresh  young  Beauty  gleams 

From  coffee-colored  laces,  — 
So  peeped  from  its  old-fashioned  dreams 

The  fresher  modern  traces  ; 


"  A  place  to  love  in,  —  live,  —  for  aye, 

If  we  too,  like  Tithonus, 
Could  find  some  God  to  stretch  the  gray 

Scant  life  the  Fates  have  thrown  us  ; 

"  But  now  by  steam  we  run  our  race, 
With  buttoned  heart  and  pocket  ; 

Our  Love  's  a  gilded,  surplus  grace,  — 
Just  like  an  empty  locket  ! 

"  '  The  time  is  out  of  joint.  '     Who  will, 
May  strive  to  make  it  better  ; 

For  me,  this  warm  old  window-sill, 
And  this  old  dusty  letter." 


"  Dear  John  (the  letter  ran),  it  can't  can't 

be, 
For  Father 's  gone  to  Charley  Fair  with 

•Sam, 
And  Mother 's  storing  Apples,  —  Prue  and 

Me 

Up  to  our  Elbows  making  Damson  Jam  : 
But    we    shall    meet  •  before    a    Week    is 

gone,  — 
'  'T  is  a  long  Lane  that  has  no  turning, 'John ! 


484 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


"  Only  till  Sunday  next,  and  then  you  '11 

wait 
Behind  the  White-Thorn,  by  the  broken 

Stile  — 
We  can  go  round  and  catch  them  at  the 

Gate, 
All   to  Ourselves,  for  nearly  one   long 

Mile; 
Dear  Prue  won't  look,  and  Father  he  '11  go 

on, 
And  Sam's   two  Eyes   are   all   for  Cissy, 

John! 

"  John,  she 's  so  smart,  —  with  every  ribbon 

new, 
Flame-colored  Sack,  and  Crimson  Pade- 

soy  ; 
As  proud  as  proud  ;  and  has  the  Vapours 

too, 
Just  like  My  Lady  ;  —  calls  poor  Sam  a 

Boy, 
And    vows    no    Sweet-heart 's   worth    the 

Thinking-on 
Till  he 's  past  Thirty  ...  I  know  better, 

John  I 

"  My  Dear,  I  don't  think  that  I  thought  of 

much 

Before    we    knew    each    other,   I    and 
you; 

And  now,  why,  John,  your  least,  least  Fin- 
ger-touch, 

Gives   me   enough  to  think  a  Summer 
through. 

See,  for  I  send  yon  Something  !     There, 
'tis  gone  ! 

Look  in  this  corner,  —  mind  you  find  it, 
John  I " 


in 


This  was  the  matter  of  the  note,  — 

A  long-forgot  deposit, 
Dropped  in  an  Indian  dragon's  throat, 

Deep  in  a  fragrant  closet, 

Piled  with  a  dapper  Dresden  world,  — 
Beaux,  beauties,  prayers,  and  poses,  — 

Bonzes  with  squat  legs  undercurled, 
And  great  jars  filled  with  roses. 

Ah,  heart  that  wrote  !  Ah,  lips  that  kissed  ! 

You  had  no  thought  or  presage 
Into  what  keeping  you  dismissed 

Your  simple  old-world  message  ! 


A  reverent  one.     Though  we  to-day 

Distrust  beliefs  and  powers, 
The  artless,  ageless  things  you  say 

Are  fresh  as  May's  own  flowers, 

Starring  some  pure  primeval  spring, 
Ere  Gold  had  grown  despotic,  — 

Ere  Life  was  yet  a  selfish  thing, 
Or  Love  a  mere  exotic  ! 

I  need  not  search  too  much  to  find 

Whose  lot  it  was  to  send  it, 
That  feel  upon  me  yet  the  kind, 

Soft  hand  of  her  who  penned  it ; 

And  see,  through  twoscore  years  of  smoke, 

In  by-gone,  quaint  apparel, 
Shine  from  yon  time-black  Norway  oak 

The  face  of  Patience  Caryl,  — 

The  pale,  smooth  forehead,  silver-tressed  : 
The  gray  gown,  primly  flowered  ; 

The  spotless,  stately  coif  whose  crest 
Like  Hector's  horse-plume  towered  ; 

And  still  the  sweet  half-solemn  look 
Where  some  past  thought  was  clinging, 

As  when  one  shuts  a  serious  book 
To  hear  the  thrushes  singing. 

I  kneel  to  you  !  Of  those  you  were, 
Whose  kind  old  hearts  grow  mellow;  — 

Whose  fair  old  faces  grow  more  fair 
As  Point  and  Flanders  yellow  ; 

Whom  some  old  store  of  garnered  grief, 

Their  placid  temples  shading, 
Crowns  like  a  wreath  of  autumn  leaf 

With  tender  tints  of  fading. 

Peace  to  your  soul  !     You  died  unwed  — 

Despite  this  loving  letter. 
And  what  of  John  ?     The  less  that 's  said 

Of  John,  I  think,  the  better. 

A  RONDEAU  TO  ETHEL 

( Who  •wishes  she  had  lived — 

"  In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop, 

Or  -while  the  patch  was  war  a.") 

"  IN  teacup-times  "  !     The  style  of  dress 
Would  suit  your  beauty,  I  confess  ; 

BKLiNDA-Hke,  the  patch  you  'd  wear  ; 

I  picture  you  with  powdered  hair,  — 
You  'd  make  a  charming  Shepherdess  ! 


AUSTIN   DOBSON 


485 


And  I  —  no  doubt  —  could  well  express 
SIR  PLUME'S  complete  conceitedness,  — 
Could  poise  a  clouded  cane  with  care 
"  In  teacup-tiines  "  ! 

The  parts  would  fit  precisely  —  yes  : 
We  should  achieve  a  huge  success  ! 
You  should  disdain,  and  I  despair, 
With  quite  the  true  Augustan  air  ; 
But  .  .  .  could  I  love  you  more,  or  less,  - 
"  In  teacup-times  "  ? 


"WITH  PIPE  AND  FLUTE" 

WITH  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 
Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man  ; 
And  wonder  hushed  the  warbling  bird, 
And  closer  drew  the  calm-eyed  herd,  — 
The  rolling  river  slowlier  ran. 

Ah  !  would,  —  ah  !  would,  a  little  span, 
Some  air  of  Arcady  could  fan 

This  age  of  ours,  too  seldom  stirred 

With  pipe  and  flute  ! 

But  now  for  gold  we  plot  and  plan  ; 

And,  from  Beersheba  unto  Dan, 
Apollo's  self  might  pass  unheard, 
Or  find  the  night-jar's  note  preferred  ;  — 

Not  so  it  fared,  when  time  began, 

With  pipe  and  flute  ! 

A  GAGE  D'AMOUR 

Martiis  c&lebs  quid  agam  Kalendis, 
miraris  ? —  HORACE,  Hi,  8. 

CHARLES,  —  for    it    seems    you   wish  to 

know,  — 

You  wonder  what  could  scare  me  so, 
And  why,  in  this  long-locked  bureau, 

With  trembling  fingers,  — 
With  tragic  air,  I  now  replace 
This  ancient  web  of  yellow  lace, 
Among  whose  faded  folds  the  trace 

Of  perfume  lingers. 

Friend  of  my  youth,  severe  as  true, 
I  guess  the  train  your  thoughts  pursue  ; 
But  this  my  state  is  nowise  due 

To  indigestion  ; 
I  had  forgotten  it  was  there, 
A  scarf  that  Some-one  used  to  wear. 
Hinc  illoe  lacrunce,  —  so  spare 

Your  cynic  question. 


Some-one  who  is  not  girlish  now, 

And  wed  long  since.     We  meet  and  bow  ; 

I  don't  suppose  our  broken  vow 

Affects  us  keenly  ; 
Yet,  trifling  though  my  act  appears, 
Your  Sternes  would  make   it  ground   for 

tears  ;  — 
One  can't  disturb  the  dust  of  years, 

And  smile  serenely. 

"  My  golden  locks  "  are  gray  and  chilis 
For  hers,  —  let  them  be  sacred  still ; 
But  yet,  I  own,  a  boyish  thrill 

Went  dancing  through  me, 
Charles,  when  I  held  yon  yellow  lace  ; 
For,  from  its  dusty  hiding-place, 
Peeped  out  an  arch,  ingenuous  face 

That  beckoned  to  me. 

We  shut  our  heart  up  nowadays, 
Like  some  old  music-box  that  plays 
Unfashionable  airs  that  raise 

Derisive  pity  ; 

Alas,  —  a  nothing  starts  the  spring  ; 
And  lo,  the  sentimental  thing 
At  once  commences  quavering 

Its  lover's  ditty. 

Laugh,  if  you  like.     The  boy  in  me,  — 
The  boy  that  was,  —  revived  to  see 
The  fresh  young  smile   that   shone   when 
she, 

Of  old,  was  tender. 

Once  more  we  trod  the  Golden  Way,  — 
That  mother  you  saw  yesterday, 
And  I,  whom  none  can  well  portray 

As  young,  or  slender. 

She  twirled  the  flimsy  scarf  about 
Her  pretty  head,  and  stepping  out, 
Slipped  arm  in  mine,  with  half  a  pout 

Of  childish  pleasure. 
Where  we  were  bound  no  mortal  knows, 
For  then  you  plunged  in  Ireland's  woes. 
And  brought  me  blankly  back  to  prose 

And  Gladstone's  measure. 

Well,  well,  the  wisest  bend  to  Fate. 
My  brown  old  books  around  me  wait, 
My  pipe  still  holds,  unconfiscate, 

Its  wonted  station. 

Pass  me  the  wine.     To  Those  that  keep 
The  bachelor's  secluded  sleep 
Peaceful,  inviolate,  and  deep, 

I  pour  libation. 


486 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


THE  CRADLE 

How  steadfastly  she  worked  at  it ! 

How  lovingly  had  drest 
With  all  her  would-be-mother's  wit 

That  little  rosy  nest ! 

ilow  longingly  she  'd  hung  on  it !  — 
It  sometimes  seemed,  she  said, 

There  lay  beneath  its  coverlet 
A  little  sleeping  head. 

He  came  at  last,  the  tiny  guest, 
Ere  bleak  December  fled  ; 

That  rosy  nest  he  never  prest  .  .  . 
Her  coffin  was  his  bed. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  GRAVE 

A  SKETCH  IN  A  CEMETERY 

OUT  from  the  City's  dust  and  roar, 

You  wandered  through  the  open  door  ; 

Paused  at  a  plaything  pail  and  spade 

Across  a  tiny  hillock  laid  ; 

Then  noted  on  your  dexter  side 

Some  moneyed  mourner's  "  love  or  pride  ; " 

And  so,  —  beyond  a  hawthorn-tree, 

Showering  its  rain  of  rosy  bloom 

Alike  on  low  and  lofty  tomb,  — 

You  came  upon  it  —  suddenly. 

How  strange  !     The  very  grasses'  growth 
Around  it  seemed  forlorn  and  loath  ; 
The  very  ivy  seemed  to  turn 
Askance    that    wreathed     the     neighbor 

urn. 

The  slab  had  sunk  ;  the  head  declined, 
And  left  the  rails  a  wreck  behind. 
No  name  ;  you  traced  a  "6,"  — a  "  7,"  — 
Part  of  "  affliction  "  and  of  "  Heaven  ;" 
And  then,  in  letters  sharp  and  clear, 
You  read  —  O  Irony  austere  !  — 
"  The?  lost  to  Sight,  to  Mem'ry  dear." 


THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS 

MONSIEUR  the  Cure'  down  the  street 
Comes  with  his  kind  old  face,  — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and   his   strag- 
gling hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 


You    may   see    him    pass    by   the    little 
"  Grande  Place," 

And  the  tiny  «  Hotel-de-  Ville  ;  " 
He  smiles  as  he  goes  to  the  Jieuriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  The'ophile. 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  "  Marche  " 

cool, 

Where  the  noisy  fish-wives  call  ; 
And   his   compliment   pays   to   the   "belle 

Therese," 
As  she  knits  in  her  dusky  stall. 

There  's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's 
shop, 

And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 
Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cure"  gropes 

In  his  tails  for  a  pain  d'epice. 

There  's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of 
fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  be  heterodox, 
That  will  ended  be  with  a  "  Mafoi,  out  !  " 

And  a  pinch  from  the  Curd's  box. 

There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 
To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou  ; 

And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering 

red, 
And  a  "  Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu* !  " 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  Sous-Prefet, 
And  a  bow  for  Ma'am 'selle  Anne  ; 

And   a  mock   "  off-hat "  to  the   Notary's 

cat, 
And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan  :  — 

For  ever  through  life  the  Cure*  goes 
With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face  — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and   his   strag- 
gling hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

"  GOOD-NIGHT,  BABETTE  !  " 

Si  viellesse  poirva.it ! 

SCENE.  —  A  small  neat  Room.    In  a  high  Vol- 
taire Chair  sits  a  white-haired  old  Gentleman. 
MONSIEUR  VIEUXBOIS.         BABETTE. 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  [turning  querulously']. 
Day  of  my  life  !  Where  can  she  get  ? 
Babette  !  I  say  !  Babette  !  —  Babette  1 


AUSTIN  DOBSON 


487 


BABETTE  [entering  hurriedly], 

Coming,  M'sieu' !     If  M'sieu'  speaks 
So  loud,  he  won't  be  well  for  weeks  ! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 
Where  have  you  been  ? 

BABETTE. 

Why,  M'sieu'  knows  :  — 
April !   .  .  .  Ville-d'Avray !  .  .  .  Ma'am'- 
selle  Rose ! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

Ah  !  I  am  old,  —  and  I  forget. 

Was  the  place  growing  green,  Babette  ? 

BABETTE. 

But  of  a  greenness  !  —  yes,  M'sieu'  ! 
And  then  the  sky  so  blue  !  —  so  blue  !  — 
And  when  I  dropped  my  immortelle, 
How  the  birds  sang  ! 

[Lifting  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 
This  poor  Ma'am'selle  ! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

You  're  a  good  girl,  Babette,  but  she,  — 

She  was  an  Angel,  verily. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  see  her  yet 

Stand  smiling  by  the  cabinet  ; 

And  once,  I  know,  she  peeped  and  laughed 

Betwixt  the  curtains  .  .  . 

Where  's  the  draught  ? 

[She  gives  him  a  cup. 

Now  I  shall  sleep,  I  think,  Babette  ;  — 
Sing  me  your  Norman  chansonnette. 

BABETTE  [sings]. 

Once  at  the  Angelus 

{Ere  I  was  dead), 
Angels  all  glorious 

Came  to  my  Bed  •  — 
Angels  in  blue  and  white 

Crowned  on  the  Head. 


M.  VIEUXBOIS  [drowsily], 
was     an     Angel    .    .    .    Once 


she 


She 

laughed 
What,  was  I  dreaming  ? 

Where 's  the  draught  ? 

BABETTE  [showing  the  empty  cup], 
The  draught,  M'sieu'  ? 


M.  VIEUXBOIS. 

How  I  forget ! 
I  am  so  old  !     But  sing,  Babette  1 

BABETTE  [sings]. 

One  was  the  Friend  I  left 

Stark  in  the  Snow  ; 
One  was  the  Wife  that  died 

Long,  —  long  ago  ; 
One  was  the  Love  I  lost  .  .  . 

How  could  she  know  ? 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  [murmuring], 

Ah,  Paul !  .  .  .  old  Paul  !  .  .  .  Eulalie  too  f 
And  Rose  .  .  .  And  O  !  .  .  .  the  sky  so  blue  ! 

BABETTE  [sings]. 

One  had  my  Mother's  eyes, 

Wistful  and  mild  • 
One  had  my  Father's  face  ; 

One  was  a  Child  : 
All  of  them  bent  to  me,  — 

Bent  down  and  smiled  ! 

He  is  asleep  ! 

M.  VIEUXBOIS  [almost  inaudibly]. 

How  I  forget ! 
I  am  so  old  .  .  .  Good  night,  Babette  ! 


ON   A    FAN 

THAT  BELONGED  TO  THE  MARQUISE  DE 
POMPADOUR 

CHICKEN-SKIN,  delicate,  white, 

Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 

Roses  and  vaporous  blue  ; 

Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou  ! 
Picture  above,  if  you  can, 

Eyes  that  could  melt  as  the  dew,  — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 

See  how  they  rise  at  the  sight, 

Thronging  the  CEil  de  Bceuf  through, 

Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 
Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 
Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 

Cardinal,  Duke,  —  to  a  man, 
Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue,  — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 

Ah,  but  things  more  than  polite 
Hung  on  this  toy,  voyez-vous  i 


488 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 
Things  that  great  ministers  do  ; 
Things  that,  may  be,  overthrew 

Those  in  whose  brains  they  began  ; 
Here  was  the  sign  and  the  cue,  — 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 


Where  are  the  secrets  it  knew  ? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan  ? 
—  But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too  ? 

This  was  the  Pompadour's  Fan  ! 


"O  NAVIS" 

SHIP,  to  the  roadstead  rolled, 
What  dost  thou  ?  —  O,  once  more 

Regain  the  port.     Behold  ! 
Thy  sides  are  bare  of  oar, 
Thy  tall  mast  wounded  sore 

Of  Africus,  and  see, 

What  shall  thy  spars  restore  !  — 

Tempt  not  thy  tyrant  sea  ! 

What  cable  now  will  hold 

When  all  drag  out  from  shore  ! 
What  god  canst  thou,  too  bold, 

In  time  of  need  implore  ! 

Look  !  for  thy  sails  flap  o'er, 
Thy  stiff  shrouds  part  and  flee, 

Fast  —  fast  thy  seams  outpour,  — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 

What  though  thy  ribs  of  old 

The  pines  of  Pontus  bore  ! 
Not  now  to  stern  of  gold 

Men  trust,  or  painted  prore  ! 

Thou,  or  thou  count'st  it  store 
A  toy  of  winds  to  be, 

Shun  thou  the  Cyclads'  roar, — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 


Ship  of  the  State,  before 
A  care,  and  now  to  me 

A  hope  in  my  heart's  core,  — 
Tempt  not  the  tyrant  sea  ! 


"O   FONS   BANDUSIvE" 

0  BABBLING  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear, 
Worthy  of  wreath  and  cup  sincere, 
To-morrow  shall  a  kid  be  thine 


With  swelled  and  sprouting  brows  for 

sign,  — 
Sure  sign  !  —  of  loves  and  battles  near. 

Child  of  the  race  that  butt  and  rear  ! 
Not  less,  alas  !  his  life-blood  dear 
Must  tinge  thy  cold  wave  crystalline, 

O  babbling  Spring  I 

Thee  Sirius  knows  not.     Thou  dost  cheer 
With     pleasant     cool     the     plough-worn 

steer,  — 
The    wandering    flock.     This  verse   of 

mine 

Will  rank  thee  one  with  founts  divine  ; 
Men  shall  thy  rock  and  tree  revere, 

O  babbling  Spring ! 

FOR   A   COPY   OF   THEOCRITUS 

O  SINGER  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Theocritus  !     Pan's  pipe  was  thine,  — 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

For  thee  the  scent  of  new-turned  mould, 
The  bee-hives,  and  the  murmuring  pine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold  ! 

Thou  sang'st  the  simple  feasts  of  old,  — 
The  beechen  bowl  made  glad  with  wine  .  . . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Thou  bad'st  the  rustic  loves  be  told,  — 
Thou  bad'st  the  tuneful  reeds  combine, 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold ! 

And  round  thee,  ever-laughing,  rolled 
The  blithe  and  blue  Sicilian  brine  .  .  . 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold. 

Alas  for  us  !   Our  songs  are  cold  ; 
Our  Northern  suns  too  sadly  shine  :  — 
O  Singer  of  the  field  and  fold, 
Thine  was  the  happier  Age  of  Gold ! 

TO   A   GREEK   GIRL 

WITH  breath  of  thyme  and  bees  that  hum, 
Across  the  years  you  seem  to  come,  — 

Across  the  years  with  nymph-like  head, 

And  wind-blown  brows  unfilleted  ; 
A  girlish  shape  that  slips  the  bud 

In  lines  of  unspoiled  symmetry ; 
A  girlish  shape  that  stirs  the  blood 

With  pulse  of  Spring,  Autonoe  ! 


AUSTIN   DOBSON 


489 


Where'er  you  pass,  —  where'er  you  go, 
I  hear  the  pebbly  rillet  flow  ; 

Where'er  you  go,  —  where'er  you  pass, 

There  comes  a  gladness  on  the  grass  ; 
You  bring  blithe  airs  where'er  you  tread,  — 

Blithe  airs  that   blow  from  down  and 

sea  ; 
You  wake  in  me  a  Pan  not  dead,  — 

Not  wholly  dead  !  —  Autonoe  ! 

How  sweet  with  you  on  some  green  sod 
To  wreathe  the  rustic  garden-god  ; 

How  sweet  beneath  the  chestnut's  shade 

With  you  to  weave  a  basket-braid  ; 
To  watch  across  the  stricken  chords 

Your  rosy-twinkling  fingers  flee  ; 
To  woo  you  in  soft  woodland  words, 

With  woodland  pipe,  Autonoe  ! 

In  vain,  —  in  vain  !     The  years  divide  : 
Where  Thamis  rolls  a  murky  tide, 

I  sit  and  fill  my  painful  reams, 

And  see  you  only  in  my  dreams  ;  — 
A  vision,  like  Alcestis,  brought 

From  under-lands  of  Memory,  — 
A  dream  of  Form  in  days  of  Thought,  — 

A  dream,  —  a  dream,  Autonoe  ! 

ARS  VICTRIX 

IMITATED  FROM  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

YES  ;  when  the  ways  oppose  — 
When  the  hard  means  rebel, 

Fairer  the  work  out-grows, — 
More  potent  far  the  spell. 

O  Poet,  then,  forbear 

The  loosely-sandalled  verse, 

Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 
The  buskin  —  strait  and  terse  ; 

Leave  to  the  tiro's  hand 

The  limp  and  shapeless  style  ; 

See  that  thy  form  demand 
The  labor  of  the  file. 

Sculptor,  do  thou  discard 
The  yielding  clay,  —  consign 

To  Paros  marble  hard 

The  beauty  of  thy  line  ;  — 

Model  thy  Satyr's  face 

For  bronze  of  Syracuse  ; 
In  the  veined  agate  trace 

The  profile  of  thy  Muse. 


Painter,  that  still  must  mix 

But  transient  tints  anew, 
Thou  in  the  furnace  fix 

The  firm  enamel's  hue  ; 

Let  the  smooth  tile  receive 
Thy  dove-drawn  Erycine  ; 

Thy  Sirens  blue  at  eve 
Coiled  in  a  wash  of  wine. 

All  passes.     Art  alone 

Enduring  stays  to  us  ; 
The  Bust  outlasts  the  throne,  — 

The  Coin,  Tiberius  ; 

Even  the  gods  must  go  ; 

Only  the  lofty  Rhyme 
Not  countless  years  o'erthrow,  — 

Not  long  array  of  time. 

Paint,  chisel,  then,  or  write  ; 

But,  that  the  work  surpass, 
With  the  hard  fashion  fight,  — 

With  the  resisting  mass. 

THE   LADIES    OF   ST.   JAMES'S 

A  PROPER  NEW  BALLAD  OF  THE  COUNTRY 
AND  THE  TOWN 

THE  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Go  swinging  to  the  play  ; 
Their  footmen  run  before  them, 

With  a  "  Stand  by  !    Clear  the  way  ! ' 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  takes  her  buckled  shoon, 
When  we  go  out  a-courting 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's 

Wear  satin  on  their  backs  ; 
They  sit  all  night  at  Ombre, 

With  candles  all  of  wax  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

She  dons  her  russet  gown, 
And  runs  to  gather  May  dew 

Before  the  world  is  down. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

They  are  so  fine  and  fair, 
You  'd  think  a  box  of  essences 

Was  broken  in  the  air  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

The  breath  of  heath  and  furze; 
When  breezes  blow  at  morning. 

Is  not  so  fresh  as  hers. 


490 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

They  're  painted  to  the  eyes  ; 
Their  white  it  stays  for  ever, 

Their  red  it  never  dies  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Her  color  comes  and  goes  ; 
It  trembles  to  a  lily,  — 

It  wavers  to  a  rose. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

You  scarce  can  understand 
The  half  of  all  their  speeches, 

Their  phrases  are  so  grand  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Her  shy  and  simple  words 
Are  clear  as  after  rain-drops 

The  music  of  the  birds. 

The  ladies  of  St.  James's  ! 

They  have  their  fits  and  freaks  ; 
They  smile  on  you  —  for  seconds, 

They  frown  on  you  —  for  weeks  : 
But  Phyllida,  my  Phyllida  ! 

Come  either  storm  or  shine, 
From  Shrove-tide  unto  Shrove-tide, 

Is  always  true  —  and  mine. 

My  Phyllida  !  my  Phyllida  ! 

I  care  not  though  they  heap 
The  hearts  of  all  St.  James's, 

And  give  me  all  to  keep  ; 
I  care  not  whose  the  beauties 

Of  all  the  world  may  be, 
For  Phyllida  — for  Phyllida 

Is  all  the  world  to  me  ! 


A   FAMILIAR   EPISTLE 

TO    ...    ESQ.     OF   ...   WITH     A     LIFE     OF     THE 
LATE  INGENIOUS   MR.   WM.    HOGARTH 

DEAR  Cosmopolitan,  —  I  know 
I  should  address  you  a  Rondeau, 
Or  else  announce  what  I  've  to  say 
At  least  en  Ballade  fratrisee  ; 
But  No  :  for  once  I  leave  Gymnasticks, 
And  take  to  simple  Hudibrasticks, 
Why  should  I  choose  another  Way, 
When  this  was  good  enough  for  GAY  ? 

You  love,  my  FRIEND,  with  me  I  think, 
That  Age  of  Lustre  and  of  Link  ; 
Of  Chelsea  China  and  long  "s"es, 
Of  Bag-wigs  and  of  flowered  Dresses  ; 


That  Age  of  Folly  and  of  Cards, 
Of  Hackney  Chairs  and  Hackney  Bards  ; 
—  No  H-LTS,  no  K-G-N  P-LS  were  then 
Dispensing  Competence  to  Men  ; 
The  gentle  Trade  was  left  to  Churls, 
Your  frowsy  TONSONS  and  your  CURLLS  ; 
Mere  Wolves  in  Ambush  to  attack 
The  AUTHOR  in  a  Sheep-skin  Back  ; 
Then  SAVAGE  and  his  Brother-Sinners 
In  Porridge  Island  div'd  for  Dinners  ; 
Or  doz'd  on  Covent  Garden  Bulks, 
And  liken'd  Letters  to  the  Hulks  ;  — 
You  know  that  by-gone  Time,  I  say, 
That  aimless  easy-moral 'd  Day, 
When  rosy  Morn  found  MADAM  still 
Wrangling  at  Ombre  or  Quadrille, 
When   good   SIR  JOHN  reel'd    Home    to 

Bed, 

From  Pontack's  or  the  Shakespear's  Head  • 
When  TRIP  convey'd  his  Master's  Cloaths, 
And  took  his  Titles  and  his  Oaths  ; 
While  BETTY,  in  a  cast  Brocade, 
Ogled  MY  LORD  at  Masquerade  ; 
When  GARRICK  play'd  the  guilty  Richard, 
Or  mouth'd  Macbeth  with  Mrs.  PRITCHARD; 
When  FOOTE  grimaced  his  snarling  Wit  ; 
When  CHURCHILL  bullied  in  the  Pit  ; 
When  the  CUZZONI  sang  — 

But  there  ! 

The  further  Catalogue  I  spare, 
Having  no  Purpose  to  eclipse 
That  tedious  Tale  of  HOMER'S  Ships  ;  — 
This  is  the  MAN  that  drew  it  all 
From  Pannier  Alley  to  the  Mall, 
Then  turn'd  and  drew  it  once  again 
From     Bird  -  Cage  -  Walk    to    Lewknor's 

Lane  ;  — 
Its    Rakes    and    Fools,    its    Rogues    and 

Sots  ; 

Its  brawling  Quacks,  its  starveling  Scots  ; 
Its  Ups  and  Downs,  its  Rags  and  Garters, 
Its  HENLEYS,  LOVATS,  MALCOLMS,  CHAR- 

TRE8, 

Its  Splendor,  Squalor,  Shame,  Disease  ; 
Its  quicquid  agunt  Homines  ;  — 
Nor  yet  omitted  to  pourtray 
Furens  quid  possit  Foemina  ;  — 
In  short,  held  up  to  ev'ry  Class 
NATURE'S  unflatt'ring  looking-Glass  ; 
And,  from  his  Canvas,  spoke  to  All 
The  Message  of  a  JUVENAL. 

Take  Him.     His  Merits  most  aver  : 
His  weak  Point  is  —  his  Chronicler  ! 


WILFRID   SCAWEN   BLUNT 


491 


"IN   AFTER   DAYS" 

IN  after  days  when  grasses  high 
O'er-top  the  stone  where  I  shall  lie, 
Though  ill  or  well  the  world  adjust 
My  slender  claim  to  honoi-ed  dust, 
I  shall  not  question  nor  reply.  • 

I  shall  not  see  the  morning  sky  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  night-wind  sigh  ; 


I  shall  be  mute,  as  all  men  must 
In  after  days  ! 

But  yet,  now  living,  fain  were  I 
That  some  one  then  should  testify, 
Saying  —  "  He  held  his  pen  in  trust 
To  Art,  not  serving  shame  or  lust." 
Will  none  ?  —  Then  let  my  memory  die 
In  after  days ! 


tffriti  £catoen  2$Iunt 


TO  MANON 

COMPARING  HER  TO  A  FALCON 

BRAVE  as  a  falcon  and  as  merciless, 
With  bright  eyes  watching  still  the  world, 

thy  prey, 

I  saw  thee  pass  in  thy  lone  majesty, 
Untamed,  unmated,  high  above  the  press. 
The  dull  crowd  gazed  at  thee.     It  could 

not  guess 

The  secret  of  thy  proud  aerial  way, 
Or  read  in  thy  mute  face  the  soul  which 

JaJ 

A  prisoner  there  in  chains  of  tenderness. 

—  Lo,  thou  art  captured.  In  my  hand  to- 
day 

I  hold  thee,  and  awhile  thou  deignest  to 
be 

Pleased  with  my  jesses.  I  would  fain  be- 
guile 

My  foolish  heart  to  think  thou  lovest  me. 
See, 

I  dare  not  love  thee  quite.     A  little  while 

And  thou  shalt  sail  back  heavenwards. 
Woe  is  me  ! 


TO   THE   SAME 

ON   HER   LIGHTHEARTEDNESS 

I  WOULD  I  had  thy  courage,  dear,  to 
face 

This  bankruptcy  of  love,  and  greet  despair 

With  smiling  eyes  and  unconcerned  em- 
brace, 

And  these  few  words  of  banter  at  "  dull 
care." 


I  would  that  I  could  sing  and  comb  my 

hair 
Like  thee  the  morning  through,  and  choose 

my  dress, 

And  gravely  argue  what  I  best  should  wear, 
A  shade  of  ribbon  or  a  fold  of  lace. 
I  would  I  had  thy  courage  and  thy  peace, 
Peace   passing   understanding ;   that  mine 

eyes 

Could  find  forgetf ulness  like  thine  in  sleep  ; 
That  all  the   past  for  me  like  thee  could 

cease 

And  leave  me  cheerfully,  sublimely  wise, 
Like  David  with  washed  face  who  ceased  to 

weep. 


LAUGHTER   AND    DEATH 

THERE  is  no  laughter  in  the  natural  world 
Of  beast   or   fish   or   bird,  though  no  sad 

doubt 

Of  their  futurity  to  them  unfurled 
Has  dared  to  check  the  mirth-oompelling 

shout. 

The  lion  roars  his  solemn  thunder  out 
To  the  sleeping  woods.     The  eagle  screams 

her  cry. 

Even  the  lark  must  strain  a  serious  throat 
To  hurl  his  blest  defiance  at  the  sky. 
Fear,  anger,  jealousy,  have  found  a  voice. 
Love's  pain  or  rapture    the  brute  bosoms 

swell. 

Nature  has  symbols  for  her  nobler  joys, 
Her  nobler  sorrows.     Who  had  dared  fore- 
tell 

That  only  man,  by  some  sad  mockery, 
Should  learn  to  laugh  who  learns  that  he 
must  die  ? 


492 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


GIBRALTAR 

SEVEN  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days 

of  storm 

Upon  the  huge  Atlantic,  and  once  more 
We  ride  into  still  water  and  the  calm 
Of  a  sweet  evening  screened  by  either  shore 
Of  Spain  and  Barbary.     Our  toils  are  o'er, 
Our  exile  is  accomplished.     Once  again 
We  look  on  Europe,  mistress  as  of  yore 
Of  the  fair  earth  and  of  the  hearts  of  men. 
Ay,  this  is  the  famed  rock,  which  Hercules 
And  Goth  and  Moor  bequeathed  us.     At 

this  door 
England  stands  sentry.     God  !  to  hear  the 

shrill 

Sweet  treble  of  her  fifes  upon  the  breeze, 
And  at  the  summons  of  the  rock  gun's  roar 
To  see  her  red  coats  marching  from  the  hill. 


THE  OLD  SQUIRE 

I  LIKE  the  hunting  of  the  hare 

Better  than  that  of  the  fox  ; 
I  like  the  joyous  morning  air, 

And  the  crowing  of  the  cocks. 

I  like  the  calm  of  the  early  fields, 

The  ducks  asleep  by  the  lake, 
The  quiet  hour  which  Nature  yields 

Before  mankind  is  awake. 

I  like  the  pheasants  and  feeding  things 

Of  the  unsuspicious  morn  ; 
I  like  the  flap  of  the  wood-pigeon's  wings 

As  she  rises  from  the  corn. 

I  like  the  blackbird's  shriek,  and  his  rush 
From  the  turnips  as  I  pass  by, 

And   the  partridge  hiding   her  head  in  a 

bush, 
For  her  young  ones  cannot  fly. 

I  like  these  things,  and  I  like  to  ride, 

When  all  the  world  is  in  bed, 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  sky  grows 
wide, 

And  where  the  sun  grows  red. 

The  beagles  at  my  horse  heels  trot 

In  silence  after  me  ; 
There 's  Ruby,  Roger,  Diamond,  Dot, 

Old  Slut  and  Margery, — 


A  score  of  uanies  well  used,  and  dear, 
The  names  my  childhood  knew  ; 

The  horn,  with  which  I  rouse  their  cheer, 
Is  the  horn  my  father  blew. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare 

Better  than  that  of  the  fox  ; 
The  new  world  still  is  all  less  fair 

Than  the  old  world  it  mocks. 

I  covet  not  a  wider  range 

Than  these  dear  manors  give  ; 

I  take  my  pleasures  without  change, 
And  as  I  lived  I  live. 

I  leave  my  neighbors  to  their  thought  ; 

My  choice  it  is,  and  pride, 
On  my  own  lands  to  find  my  sport, 

In  my  own  fields  to  ride. 

The  hare  herself  no  better  loves 
The  field  where  she  was  bred, 

Than  I  the  habit  of  these  groves, 
My  own  inherited. 

I  know  my  quarries  every  one, 
The  meuse  where  she  sits  low  ; 

The  road  she  chose  to-day  was  run 
A  hundred  years  ago. 

The  lags,  the  gills,  the  forest  ways, 

The  hedgerows  one  and  all, 
These  are  the  kingdoms  of  my  chase, 

And  bounded  by  my  wall ; 

Nor  has  the  world  a  better  thing, 
Though  one  should  search  it  round, 

Than  thus  to  live  one's  own  sole  king, 
Upon  one's  own  sole  ground. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare  ; 

It  brings  me,  day  by  day, 
The  memory  of  old  days  as  fair, 

With  dead  men  passed  away. 

To  these,  as  homeward  still  I  ply 
And  pass  the  churchyard  gate, 

Where  all  are  laid  as  I  must  lie, 
I  stop  and  raise  my  hat. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare  •, 

New  sports  I  hold  in  scorn. 
I  like  to  be  as  my  fathers  were, 

In  the  days  e'er  I  was  born. 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


493 


f  ranfc  €. 


DEATH  AS  THE  TEACHER  OF 
LOVE-LORE 

'T  WAS    in   mid  autumn,   and   the   woods 

were  still. 
A  brooding  inist  from  out  the  marshlands 

lay 

Like  age's  clammy  hand  upon  the  day, 
Soddening  it  ;  —  and  the  night  rose  dank 

and  chill. 
I  watched  the  sere  leaves  falling,  falling, 

till 
Old  thoughts,  old  hopes,  seemed  fluttering 

too  away, 
And    then   I   sighed   to   think   how   life's 

decay, 
And  change,  and  time's  mischances,  Love 

might  kill. 

Sudden  a  shadowy  horseman,  at  full  speed 
Spurring  a  pale  horse,  passed  me  swiftly 

fey» 

And  mocking  shrieked,  "  Thy  love  is  dead 

indeed, 

Haste  to  the  burial  !  "  —  "With  a  bitter  cry 
I  swooned,  and   wake    to   wonder   at   my 

creed, 
Learning  from  Death  that  Love  can  never 

die. 

DEATH   AS    THE    FOOL 

IN  the  high  turret  chamber  sat  the  sage, 
Striving  to  wring  its  secret  from  the  scroll 
Of  time  ;  —  and  hard  the  task,  for  roll  on 

roll 
Was  blurred  with  blood  and  tears,  or  black 

with  age. 

So  that  at  last  a  hunger  seized  him,  a  rage 
Of  richer  lore  than  our  poor  life  can  dole, 
And  loud  he  called  on  Death  to  dower  his 

soul 

With  the  great  past's  unrifled  heritage. 
And  lo,  a  creaking  step  upon  the  stair, 
A  croak  of  song,  a  jingle,  —  and  Death 

came  in 

Mumming  in  motley  with  a  merry  din 
And  jangle  of  bells,  and  droning  this  re- 
frain, 
"  God  help  the  fools  who  count  on  death 

for  gain." 

So   had  the  sage   death-bell  and  passing- 
prayer. 


TWO   SONNET-SONGS 

i 
The  Sirens  sing. 

HIST,  hist,  ye  winds,  ye  whispering  wave- 
lets hist, 

Their  toil  is  done,  their  teen  and  trouble 
are  o'er, 

Wash  them,  ye  waves,  in  silence  to  the  shore, 

Waft  them,  ye  winds,  with  voices  hushed 
and  whist. 

Hist,  waves  and  winds,  here  shall  their 
eyes  be  kist 

By  love,  and  sweet  love-slumber,  till  the  roar 

Of  forepast  storms,  now  stilled,  for  ever- 
more, 

Die  on  their  dream-horizons  like  dim  mist. 

What  of  renown,  ye  winds,  when  storms 
are  done  ? 

A  faded  foam-flower  on  a  wearying  wave. 

All  toil  is  but  the  digging  of  a  grave. 

Here  let  them  rest  awhile  ere  set  the  sun, 

And  sip  the  honey 'd  moments  one  by  one  — 

So  fleet,  so  sweet,  so  few  to  squander  or 
save. 

II 
Orpheus  and  the  Manners  make  answer. 

FLEET,  fleet  and  few,  ay,  fleet  the  moments 

fly- 
(Lash  to  light  live  foam,  ye  oars,  the  dreaming 

seas), 
And   shall  we  lie   in   swine-sloth   here   at 

ease  — 

(Dip,  dip,  ye  oars,  and  dash  the  dark  seas  by), 
In  swine-sloth  here  while  death  is  stealing 

nigh  — 
(Sweep,  oars,  sweep,  here  ripples  and  sparkles 

the  breeze), 

And  work  is  ours  to  drain  to  the  last  lees  ? 
(Drive  oars  and  winds,  we  will  dare  and  do 

ere  we  die). 

And  if  no  sound  of  voice  nor  any  call 
Break  the  death-silence  bidding  us  all  hail, 
And,  even  among  the  living,  Fame  should 

fail 

To  shrill  our  deeds,  yet  whatsoe'er  befall, 
As  men  who  fought  for  good  not  guerdon 

at  all, 
Peal  the   glad  Psean  !     (Steady  oars  and 

sail.) 


494 


RECENT   POETS    OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


AN   AUTUMN    FLITTING 

MY  roof  is  hardly  picturesque  — 
It  lacks  the  pleasant  reddish  brown 
Of  the  tiled  house-tops  out  of  town, 
And  cannot  even  hope  to  match 
The  modest  beauty  of  the  thatch  : 
Nor  is  it  Gothic  or  grotesque  — 
No  gable  breaks,  with  quaint  design, 
Its  hard  monotony  of  line, 
And  not  a  gargoyle  on  the  spout 
Brings  any  latent  beauty  out : 
Its  only  charm  —  I  hold  it  high  — 
Is  just  its  nearness  to  the  sky. 

But  yet  it  looks  o'er  field  and  tree, 

And  in  the  air 

One  breathes  up  there 

A  faint,  fresh  whiff  suggests  the  sea. 

And  that  is  why,  this  afternoon, 

The  topmost  slates  above  the  leads 

Were  thick  with  little  bobbing  heads, 

And  frisking  tails,  and  wings  that  soon 

Shall  spread,  ah  me  ! 

For  lands  where  summer  lingers  fair, 

Far  otherwhere. 

I  heard  a  muttering, 

Saw  a  fluttering, 

Pointed  wings  went  skimming  past, 

White  breasts  shimmered  by  as  fast, 

Wheel  and  bound  and  spurt  and  spring  • 

All  the  air  seemed  all  on  wing. 

Then,  like  dropping  clouds  of  leaves, 

Down  they  settled  on  the  eaves  — 

All  the  swallows  of  the  region, 

In  a  number  almost  legion  — 

Frisked  about,  but  did  not  stop 

Till  they  reached  the  ridge  atop.  • 

Then  what  chirping,  what  commotion  ! 
What  they  said  I  have  no  notion, 
But  one  cannot  err  in  stating 
There  was  very  much  debating. 
First  a  small  loquacious  swallow 
Seemed  to  move  a  resolution  ; 
And  another  seemed  to  follow, 
Seconding  the  subject-matter 
With  a  trick  of  elocution. 
After  that  the  chirp  and  chatter 
Boded  some  more  serious  end,  meant 


CottereH 

For  a  quarrelsome  amendment  ; 

Bobbing  heads  and  flapping  wings, 

Eloquent  of  many  things, 

Gathered  into  lively  rows, 

"  Pros  "    and    "  cons  "   and    "  ayes  "    and 

"  noes." 

As  the  clatter  reached  my  ears, 
Now  it  sounded  like  "  hear,  hears  "  ; 
But  again  a  note  of  faction, 
With  a  clash  of  beaks  in  action, 
Gave  an  aspect  to  the  scene 
Not  exactly  quite  serene. 
Fretful  clusters  flew  away, 
All  too  much  incensed  to  stay  ; 
Wheeled  about,  then  took  a  tack, 
Halted  and  came  darting  back. 
Others,  eager  to  be  heard, 
Perched  upon  the  chimney-top, 
Chirped,  as  they  would  never  stop, 
Loud  and  fluent  every  bird. 

But  the  turmoil  passed  away  : 
How  it  happened  I  can't  say,  — 
All  I  know  is,  there  was  peace. 
Whether  some  more  thoughtful  bird 
Said  the  quarrelling  was  absurd, 
And  implored  that  it  should  cease  ; 
Whether  what  appeared  contention 
Was  a  difference  not  worth  mention, 
Just  some  mere  exchange  of  words 
Not  uncommon  among  birds, 
I  have  only  my  own  notion, 
You  may  make  a  nearer  guess  ; 
All  at  once  the  noise  was  over, 
Not  a  bird  was  now  a  rover, 
Some  one  seemed  to  put  the  motion,     . 
And  the  little  heads  bobbed  "  Yes." 

Ob,  that  sudden  resolution, 

So  unanimously  carried  ! 

Would  they  'd  longer  talked  and  tarried, 

With  their  fiery  elocution  ! 

What  it  bodes  I  cannot  doubt  ; 

They  were  planning  when  to  go, 

And  they  have  settled  it,  I  know  ; 

Some  chill  morning,  when  the  sun 

Does  not  venture  to  shine  out, 

I  shall  miss  them  —  overnight 

They  will  all  have  taken  flight, 

And  the  summer  will  be  gone. 


ANDREW  LANG 


495 


IN   THE   TWILIGHT 

FAR  off  ?     Not  far  away 

Lies  that  fair  land  ; 
Shut  from  the  curious  gaze  by  day, 

Hidden,  but  close  at  hand  : 
Let  us  seek  it  who  may. 

Lie  by  me  and  hold  me,  sweet, 

Clasp  arms  and  sink  ; 
There  needs  no  weariness  of  the  feet, 

Neither  to  toil  nor  think  ; 
Almost  the  pulse  may  cease  to  beat. 

Eyes  made  dim,  and  breathing  low, 

Hand  locked  in  hand, 
Goodly  the  visions  that  come  and  go, 

Glimpses  of  that  land 
Fairer  than  the  eyes  can  know. 

Is  it  not  a  land  like  ours  ? 

Nay,  much  more  fair  ; 
Sweeter  flowers  than  earthly  flowers 

Shed  their  fragance  there, 
Fade  not  with  the  passing  hours. 

Soft  are  all  the  airs  that  blow, 

Breathing  of  love  ; 
Dreamily  soft  the  vales  below, 

The  skies  above, 

And   all   the  murmuring    streams   that 
flow. 

There  are  daughters  of  beauty,  the  host 
Of  nymphs  of  old  time  ; 


All  the  loves  of  the  poets  who  boast 

Of  their  loves  in  their  rhyme,  — 
Loves  won,  and  the  sadder  loves  lost  : 

Fair,  passionless  creatures  of  thought, 

Most  fair,  most  calm  ; 
The  joy  of  whose  beauty  has  brought 

To  the  soul  its  own  balm  ; 
Not  desire  that  cometh  to  naught. 

The  dreams  that  were  dreamed  long  ago 

Lie  treasured  there  still  ; 
For  the  things  that  the  dreamers  fore- 
know 

The  years  shall  fulfil, 
The  fleet  years  and  slow. 


were 


Dreams,    memories,    hopes     that 
bright, 

And  hearts  that  were  young  ; 
All  the  stars  and  the  glories  of  night, 

All  the  glories  of  song,  — 
They  are  there,  in  that  land  of  delight. 

Wilt  thou  seek  that  land  then,  sweet  ? 

Yea,  love,  with  thee  ; 
Fleet,  as  thy  soul's  wings  are  fleet, 

Shall  our  passage  be  : 
Soft,  on  wings  of  noiseless  beat. 

Bid  my  wings  with  thine  expand  ; 

So  may  we  glide 
Into  the  stillness  of  that  land, 

,    Lovingly  side  by  side, 
Hopefully  hand  in  hand. 


Stntureto 


BALLADES 


TO   THEOCRITUS,   IN   WINTER 
ecropiZi'  rav  SiKeAai/  es  aAa.  —  ID.  viii.  56. 

AH  !   leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the 

roar 

Of  London,  leave  the  bustling  street, 
For  still,  by  the  Sicilian  shore, 
The  murmur  of  the  Muse  is  sweet. 
Still,  still,  the  suns  of  summer  greet 
The  mountain-grave  of  Helike, 
And  shepherds  still  their  songs  repeat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 


What    though    they    worship   Pan    no 

more 

That  guarded  once  the  shepherd's  seat, 
They  chatter  of  their  rustic  lore, 
They  watch  the  wind  among  the  wheat  : 
Cicalas  chirp,  the  young  lambs  bleat, 
Where  whispers  pine  to  cypress  tree  ; 
They  count  the  waves  that  idly  beat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 

Theocritus  !  thou  canst  restore 
The  pleasant  years,  and  over-fleet ; 
With  thee  we  live  as  men  of  yore, 
We  rest  where  running  waters  meet : 


496 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


And  then  we  turn  unwilling  feet 
And  seek  the  world  —  so  must  it  be  — 
We  may  not  linger  in  the  heat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea  ! 


Master,  —  when    rain,   and    snow,   and 

sleet 

And  northern  winds  are  wild,  to  thee 
We  come,  we  rest  in  thy  retreat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea  ! 

OF    THE   BOOK-HUNTER 

IN  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 

In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise, 

He  book-hunts  while  the  loungers  fly, 

He  book-hunts,  though  December  freeze  ; 

In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 

And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers, 

For    these,    for    these,    he    hoards    his 

fees,  — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye, 

He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees, 

There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie, 

Or  Restoration  comedies  ; 

Each  tract  that  flutters  in  the  breeze 

For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears, 

In  mouldy  novels  fancy  sees 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy,  \ 
Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  nor  trees, 
In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 
Whose  motto  evermore  is  Spes  ! 
But  ah  !  the  fabled  treasure  flees  ; 
Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years, 
In  rich  men's   shelves  they  take  their 

ease,  — 
Aldiues,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ! 

ENVOY 

Prince,   all  the   things   that   tease  and 

please,  — 
Fame,  hope,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers,  and 

tears, 

What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these,  — 
Aldiues,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ? 

OF    BLUE   CHINA 

THERE  's  a  joy  without  canker  or  cark, 
There  's  a  pleasure  eternally  new, 


'T  is  to  gloat  on  the  glaze  and  the  mark 
Of  china  that 's  ancient  and  blue  ; 
Unchipp'd,  all  the  centuries  through 
It  has  pass'd,  since  the  chime  of  it  rang, 
And  they  fashion'd  it,  figure  and  hue, 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

These  dragons  (their  tails,  you  remark, 
Into  bunches  of  gillyflowers  grew),  — 
When  Noah  came  out  of  the  ark, 
Did  these  lie  in  wait  for  his  crew  ? 
They  snorted,  they  snapp'd,  and  they  slew, 
They  were  mighty  of  fin  and  of  fang, 
And  their  portraits  Celestials  drew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

Here  's  a  pot  with  a  cot  in  a  park, 

In  a  park  where  the  peach-blossoms  blew, 

Where  the  lovers  eloped  in  the  dark, 

Lived,  died,  and  were  changed  into  two 

Bright  birds  that  eternally  flew 

Through  the  boughs  of  the  may,  as  they 

sang  ; 

'T  is  a  tale  was  undoubtedly  true 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


Come,  snarl  at  my  ecstasies,  do, 
Kind  critic  ;  your  "tongue  has  a  tang," 
But  —  a  sage  never  heeded  a  shrew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


OF   LIFE 

"  '  Dead  and  gone,'  —  a  sorry  burden  of  the  Ballad  oi 
Life."  —  DEATH'S  JEST  BOOK. 

SAY,  fair  maids,  maying 

In  gardens  green, 

In  deep  dells  straying, 

What  end  hath  been 

Two  Mays  between 

Of  the  flowers  that  shone 

And  your  own  sweet  queen  ?  — 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  ! " 

Say,  grave  priests,  praying 

In  dule  and  teen, 

From  cells  decaying 

What  have  ye  seen 

Of  the  proud  and  mean, 

Of  Judas  and  John, 

Of  the  foul  and  clean  ?  — 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  I  " 


ANDREW  LANG 


497 


Say,  kings,  arraying 

Loud  wars  to  win, 

Of  your  manslaying 

What  gain  ye  glean  ? 

"  They  are  fierce  and  keen, 

But  they  fall  anon, 

On  the  sword  that  lean,  — 

They  are  dead  and  gone  !  " 


Through  the  mad  world's  scene 

We  are  drifting  on, 

To  this  tune,  I  ween, 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  !  " 


OF   HIS    CHOICE    OF   A   SEPULCHRE 

HERE  I  'd  come  when  weariest  ! 

Here  the  breast 

Of  the  Windberg  's  tufted  over 
Deep  with  bracken  ;  here  his  crest 

Takes  the  west, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

Silent  here  are  lark  and  plover  ; 

In  the  cover 

Deep  below,  the  cushat  best 
Loves  his  mate,  and  croons  above  her 

O'er  their  nest, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

Bring  me  here,  Life's  tired-out  guest, 

To  the  blest 

Bed  that  waits  the  weary  rover,  — 
Here  should  failure  be  confest ; 

Ends  my  quest, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover  ! 


Friend,  or  stranger  kind,  or  lover, 
Ah,  fulfil  a  last  behest, 

Let  me  rest 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover  ! 


ROMANCE 

MY  Love  dwelt  in  a  Northern  land. 

A  gray  tower  in  a  forest  green 
Was  hers,  and  far  on  either  hand 

The  long  wash  of  the  waves  was  seen, 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  yellow  sand, 

The  woven  forest  boughs  between  ! 


And  through  the  silver  Northern  night 
The  sunset  slowly  died  away, 

And  herds  of  strange  deer,  lily-white, 
Stole  forth  among  the  branches  gray  ; 

About  the  coming  of  the  light, 

They  fled  like  ghosts  before  the  day  ! 

I  know  not  if  the  forest  green 

Still  girdles  round  that  castle  gray  ; 

I  know  not  if  the  boughs  between 
The  white  deer  vanish  ere  the  day  ; 

Above  my  Love  the  grass  is  green, 
My  heart  is  colder  than  the  clay  ! 


THE   ODYSSEY 

As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  JEeean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again,  — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the 

free 
Shrill   wind   beyond    the    close    of    heavy 

flowers, 
And,   through   the    music   of   the  languid 

hours, 

They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


SAN    TERENZO 

MID  April   seemed  like   some   November 

day, 
When  through  the  glassy  waters,  dull  as 

lead, 
Our  boat,  like  shadowy  barques  that  bear 

the  dead, 
Slipped  down  the  long  shores  of  the  Spezian 

bay, 

Rounded  a  point,  —  and  San  Terenzo  lay 
Before  us,  that  gay  village,  yellow  and  red, 
The  roof  that  covered  Shelley's  homeless 

head, — 

His  house,  a  place  deserted,  bleak  and  gray. 
The  waves  broke  on  the  doorstep  ;  fisher- 
men 
Cast  their  long  nets,  and  drew,  and  cast 

again. 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Deep  in  the  ilex  woods  we  wandered  free, 
When  suddenly   the    forest   glades    were 

stirred 

With  waving  pinions,  and  a  great  sea  bird 
Flew  forth,  like  Shelley's  spirit,  to  the  sea  ! 


SCYTHE   SONG 

MOWERS,  weary  and  brown,  and  blithe, 

What  is  the  word  methinks  ye  know, 
Endless  over-word  that  the  Scythe 

Sings  to  the  blades  of  the  grass  below  ? 
Scythes  that  swing  in  the  grass  and  clover, 

Something,  still,  they  say  as  they  pass  ; 
What  is  the  word  that,  over  and  over, 

Sings    the   Scythe    to   the   flowers    and 
grass  ? 

Hush,  ah  hush,  the  Scythes  are  saying, 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  and  fall  asleep  ; 
Hush,  they  say  to  the  grasses  swaying  ; 

Hush,  they  sing  to  the  clover  deep  ! 
Hush  —  't  is  the  lullaby  Time  is  singing  — 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  for  all  things  pass  ; 
Hush,  ah  hush  !  and  the  Scythes  are  swinging 

Over  the  clover,  over  the  grass  ! 


MELVILLE    AND    COGHILL 
(THE  PLACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  HAND) 

DEAD,  with  their  eyes  to  the  foe, 
Dead,  with  the  foe  at  their  feet  ; 

Under  the  sky  laid  low 

Truly  their  slumber  is  sweet, 

Though  the  wind  from  the  Camp  of   the 

Slain  Men  blow, 
And  the  rain  on  the  wilderness  beat. 

Dead,  for  they  chose  to  die 
When  that  wild  race  was  run  ; 

Dead,  for  they  would  not  fly, 
Deeming  their  work  undone, 

Nor  cared  to  look  on  the  face  of  the  sky, 
Nor  loved  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Honor  we  give  them  and  tears, 
And  the  flag  they  died  to  save, 

Rent  from  the  raid  of  the  spears, 
Wet  from  the  war  and  the  wave, 

Shall  waft  men's  thoughts  through  the  dust 

of  the  years, 
Back  to  their  lonely  grave  ! 


PARAPHRASES 

ERINNA 

ANTIPATER   OF  SIDON 

BRIEF  is  Erinna's  song,  her  lowly  lay, 

Yet  there  the  Muses  sing  ; 
Therefore  her  memory  doth  not  pass  away* 

Hid  by  Night's  shadowy  wing  ! 
But  we,  —  new  countless  poets,  —  heaped 
and  hurled 

All  in  oblivion  lie  ; 
Better  the  swan's  chant  than  a  windy  world 

Of  rooks  in  the  April  sky  ! 

TELLING  THE  BEES 

ANONYMOUS 

NAIADS,  and  ye  pastures  cold, 

When  the  bees  return  with  spring, 
Tell  them  that  Leucippus  old 

Perished  in  his  hare-hunting, 
Perished  on  a  winter  night. 
Now  no  more  shall  he  delight 

In  the  hives  he  used  to  tend, 
But  the  valley  and  the  height 

Mourn  a  neighbor  and  a  friend. 

HELIODORE   DEAD 

MELEAGER 

TEARS  for  my  lady  dead, 

Heliodore  ! 
Salt  tears  and  ill  to  shed 

Over  and  o'er. 
Tears  for  my  lady  dead, 

Sighs  do  we  send, 
Long  love  remembered, 

Mistress  and  friend. 
Sad  are  the  songs  we  sing, 

Tears  that  we  shed, 
Empty  the  gifts  we  bring, 

Gifts  to  the  dead. 
Go  tears,  and  go  lament ! 

Fare  from  her  tomb, 
Wend  where  my  lady  went, 

Down  through  the  gloom. 
Ah,  for  my  flower,  my  love, 

Hades  hath  taken  ! 
Ah  for  the  dust  above, 

Scattered  and  shaken ! 
Mother  of  all  things  born, 

Earth,  in  thy  breast 
Lull  her  that  all  men  mourn, 

Gently  to  rest ! 


ANDREW  LANG 


499 


A  SCOT  TO  JEANNE  D'ARC 

DARK  Lily  without  blame, 
Not  upon  us  the  shame, 
Whose   sires  were   to   the   Auld  Alliance 

true  ; 

They,  by  the  Maiden's  side, 
Victorious  fought  and  died  ; 
One    stood    by   thee    that    fiery  torment 

through, 
Till  the  White  Dove  from  thy  pure  lips 

had  passed, 

And  thou  wert  with  thine  own  St.  Catherine 
at  the  last. 

Once  only  didst  thou  see, 
In  artist's  imagery, 
Thine  own  face  painted,  and  that  precious 

thing 

Was  in  an  Archer's  hand 
From  the  leal  Northern  land. 


THREE    PORTRAITS  OF   PRINCE 
CHARLES 


BEAUTIFUL  face  of  a  child, 

Lighted  with  laughter  and  glee, 

Mirthful,  and  tender,  and  wild, 
My  heart  is  heavy  for  thee  ! 

1744 
Beautiful  face  of  a  youth, 

As  an  eagle  poised  to  fly  forth 
To  the  old  land  loyal  of  truth, 

To   the    hills   and    the    sounds   of    the 

North  : 
Fair  face,  daring  and  proud, 

Lo  !  the  shadow  of  doom,  even  now, 
The  fate  of  thy  line,  like  a  cloud, 

Rests  on  the  grace  of  thy  brow  ! 

1773 
Cruel  and  angry  face, 

Hateful  and  heavy  with  wine, 
Where  are  the  gladness,  the  grace, 

The  beauty,  the  mirth  that  were  thine  ? 

Ah,  my  Prince,  it  were  well,  — 

Hadst  thou  to  the  gods  been  dear,  — 

To  have  fallen  where  Keppoch  fell, 
With  the  war-pipe  loud  in  thine  ear  ! 

To  have  died  with  never  a  stain 

On  the  fair  White  Rose  of  Renown, 


To  have  fallen,  fighting  in  vain, 

For    thy    father,    thy    faith,    and    thy 

crown  ! 
More  than  thy  marble  pile, 

With  its  women  weeping  for  thee, 
Were  to  dream  in  thine  ancient  isle$ 

To  the  endless  dirge  of  the  sea ! 
But  the  Fates  deemed  otherwise  ; 

Far  thou  sleepest  from  home, 
From  the  tears  of  the  Northern  skies, 

In  the  secular  dust  of  Rome. 
A  city  of  death  and  the  dead, 

But  thither  a  pilgrim  came, 
Wearing  on  weary  head 

The  crowns  of  years  and  fame  : 
Little  the  Lucrine  lake 

Or  Tivoli  said  to  him, 
Scarce  did  the  memories  wake 

Of  the  far-off  years  and  dim, 
For  he  stood  by  Avernus'  shore. 

But  he  dreamed  of  a  Northern  glen, 
And  he  murmured,  over  and  o'er, 

"  For  Charlie  and  his  men :  " 
And  his  feet,  to  death  that  went, 

Crept  forth  to  St.  Peter's  shrine, 
And  the  latest  Minstrel  bent 

O'er  the  last  of  the  Stuart  line. 

yESOP 

HE  sat  among  the  woods  ;  he  heard 
The  sylvan  merriment ;  he  saw 

The  pranks  of  butterfly  and  bird, 
The  humors  of  the  ape,  the  daw. 

And  in  the  lion  or  the  frog,  — 

In  all  the  life  of  moor  and  fen,  — 

In  ass  and  peacock,  stork  and  dog, 
He  read  similitudes  of  men. 

"  Of  these,   from   those,"   he   cried,  "  we 

come, 
Our   hearts,    our   brains   descend    from 

these." 

And,  lo  !  the  Beasts  no  more  were  dumb, 
But  answered  out  of  brakes  and  trees  : 

"  Not  ours,"  they  cried  ;  "  Degenerate, 
If  ours  at  all,"  they  cried  again, 

"  Ye  fools,  who  war  with  God  and  Fate. 
Who   strive   and   toil ;   strange   race  of 
men. 

"  For  we  are  neither  bond  nor  free, 
For  we  have  neither  slaves  nor  kings  ; 


500 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


But  near  to  Nature's  heart  are  we, 
And  conscious  of  her  secret  things. 

"  Content  are  we  to  fall  asleep, 

And  well  content  to  wake  no  more  ; 

We  do  not  laugh,  we  do  not  weep, 
Nor  look  behind  us  and  before  : 

*  But  were  there  cause  for  moan  or  mirth, 
'T  is  we,  not  you,  should  sigh  or  scorn, 

Oh,  latest  children  of  the  Earth, 

Most  childish  children  Earth  has  born. " 


They  spoke,  but  that  misshapen  slave 
Told  never  of  the  thing  he  heard, 

And  unto  men  their  portraits  gave, 
In  likenesses  of  beast  and  bird ! 


ON   CALAIS    SANDS 

ON  Calais  Sands  the  gray  began, 
Then  rosy  red  above  the  gray  ; 

The  morn  with  many  a  scarlet  van 

Leaped,  and  the  world  was  glad   with 
May! 


The  little  waves  along  the  bay 

Broke  white  upon  the  shelving  strands  ; 
The  sea-mews  flitted  white  as  they 
On  Calais  Sands  ! 

On  Calais  Sands  must  man  with  man 
Wash  honor  clean  in  blood  to-day  ; 

On  spaces  wet  from  waters  wan 

How  white  the  flashing  rapiers  play,  — 

Parry,  riposte  !  and  lunge  !     The  fray 
Shifts  for  a  while,  then  mournful  stands 

The  Victor  :  life  ebbs  fast  away 
On  Calais  Sands  ! 

On  Calais  Sands  a  little  space 

Of  silence,  then  the  plash  and  spray, 

The  sound  of  eager  waves  that  ran 
To  kiss  the  perfumed  locks  astray, 

To  touch  these  lips  that  ne'er  said  "  Nay," 
To  dally  with  the  helpless  hands, 

Till  the  deep  sea  in  silence  lay 
On  Calais  Sands  ! 

Between  the  lilac  and  the  may 

She  waits  her  love  from  alien  lands  ; 
Her  love  is  colder  than  the  clay 
On  Calais  Sands  ! 


lOilltam  Canton 


KARMA 

IN  the  heart  of  the  white  summer  mist  lay 

a  green  little  piece  of  the  world  ; 
And  the  tops  of  the  beeches  were  lost  in 

the   mist,  and  the   mist   ringed  us 

round  ; 
All  the  low  leaves  were  silvered  with  dew, 

and  the  herbage  with  dew  was  im- 

pearled  ; 
And  the  turmoil  of  life  was  but  vaguely 

divined  through  the  mist  as  a  sound. 

In  the  heart  of  the  mist  there  was  warmth, 

for  the  soil  full  of  sun  was  aglow, 
Like  a  fruit  when  it  colors,  —  and  fragrance 

from  flowers,  and  a  scent  from  the 

soil  ; 
A.nd  a  lamb  in  the  grass,  in  the  flowers, 

in    the   dew,   nibbled,   whiter   than 

snow  : 


And  the  white  summer  mist  was  a  fold  for 
us  both  against  sorrow  and  toil. 

From  the  fields  in  the  mist  came  a  bleating, 
a  sound  as  of  longing  and  need  : 

But  the  lamb  from  the  grass  in  its  lit- 
tle green  heaven  never  lifted  its 
head  : 

It  was  innocent,  whiter  than  snow ;  it 
was  glad  in  the  flowers,  took  no 
heed  ; 

But  the  sound  from  the  fields  in  the  mist 
made  me  grieve  as  for  one  that  is 
dead. 

And  behold  !  't  was  a  dream  I  had  dreamed, 

and  a  voice  made  me  wake  with  a 

start, 
Saying  :    "  Hark  !  once  again  in  the   flesh 

shall  ye  twain  live  your  life  for  a 

span  ; 


JOHN   HARTLEY 


But  since  whiteness  of  snow  is  as  nought 
in  mine  eyes  without  pity  of  heart, 

Lo  !  the  lamb  shall  be  born  as  a  wolf,  with 
a  wolf's  heart,  but  thou  as  a  man  !  " 


LAUS    INFANTIUM 

IN  praise  of  little  children  I  will  say 

God  first  made  man,  then  found  a  better 

way 

For  woman,  but  his  third  way  was  the  best. 
Of  all  created  things,  the  loveliest 
And  most  divine  are  children.      Nothing 

here 

Can  be  to  us  more  gracious  or  more  dear. 
And  though,  when  God  saw  all  his  works 

were  good, 

There  was  no  rosy  flower  of  babyhood, 
'T  was  said  of  children  in  a  later  day 
That  none  could  enter  Heaven  save  such  as 

they. 

The  earth,  which  feels  the  flowering  of  a 

thorn, 
Was  glad,  O  little  child,  when  you  were 

born  ; 
The   earth,    which   thrills   when    skylarks 

scale  the  blue, 
Soared  up  itself  to  God's  own  Heaven  in 

y°u ;     , 

And   Heaven,  which  loves  to   lean  down 

and  to  glass 

Its  beauty  in  eachdewdrop  on  the  grass,  — 
Heaven  laughed  to  find  your  face  so  pure 

and  fair, 
And  left,  O  little  child,  its  reflex  there. 


A    NEW    POET 

I  WRITE.     He  sits  beside  my  chair, 
And  scribbles,  too,  in  hushed  delight , 

He  dips  his  pen  in  charmed  air  : 
What  is  it  he  pretends  to  write  ? 

He  toils  and  toils  ;  the  paper  gives 

No  clue  to  aught  he  thinks.    What  then  ? 

His  little  heart  is  glad  ;  he  lives 
The  poems  that  he  cannot  pen. 

Strange  fancies  throng  that  baby  brain. 

What  grave,  sweet  looks  !    What  earnest 

eyes  ! 
He  stops  —  reflects  —  and  now  again 

His  unrecording  pen  he  plies. 

It  seems  a  satire  on  myself,  — 

These  dreamy  nothings  scrawled  in  air, 
This  thought,  this  work  !     Oh  tricksy  elf, 

Wouldst  drive  thy  father  to  despair  ? 

Despair  !     Ah,  no  ;  the  heart,  the  mind 
Persists     in     hoping,  —  schemes      and 
strives 

That  there  may  linger  with  our  kind 
Some  memory  of  our  little  lives. 

Beneath  his  rock  i'  the  early  world 

Smiling  the  naked  hunter  lay, 
And  sketched  on  horn  the  spear  he  hurled, 

The  urus  which  he  made  his  prey. 

Like  him  I  strive  in  hope  my  rhymes 
May  keep  my  name  a  little  while,  — 

O  child,  who  knows  how  many  times 
We  two  have  made  the  angels  smile  ! 


TO   A   DAISY 

AH  !  I  'm  feared  thou 's  come  too  sooin, 

Little  daisy  ! 
Pray  whativer  wor  ta  doin'  ? 

Are  ta  crazy  ? 

Winter  winds  are  blowin'  yet. 
Tha  '11  be  starved,  mi  little  pet  ! 

Did  a  gleam  o'  sunshine  warm  thee; 
An'  deceive  thee  ? 


Niver  let  appearance  charm  thee  ; 

Yes,  believe  me, 

Smiles  tha  'It  find  are  oft  but  snares 
Laid  to  catch  thee  unawares. 

An'  yet,  I  think  it  looks  a  shame 
To  talk  sich  stuff  ; 

I  've  lost  heart,  an'  thou  'It  do  t'  same, 
Ay,  sooin  enough  ! 

An',  if  thou  'rt  happy  as  tha  art, 

Trustin'  must  be  t'  wisest  part. 


502 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Come  I     I  '11  pile  some  bits  o'  stoan 
Round  thi  dwellin'  ; 

They  may  cheer  thee  when  I  've  goan,  — 
Theer  's  no  tellin'  ; 

An'  when  Spring's  mild  day  draws  near 

I  '11  release  thee,  niver  fear  ! 


An'  if  then  thi  pretty  face 

Greets  me  smilin', 

I  may  come  an'  sit  by  th'  place, 
Time  beguiliu', 

Glad  to  think  I  'd  paar  to  be 

Of  some  use  if  but  to  thee  ! 


CUDDI!E  DOON 

THE  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  muckle  faught  an'  din  ; 
"  Oh  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues, 

Your  faither  's  comin'  in." 
They  never  heed  a  word  I  speak  ; 

I  try  to  gie  a  froon, 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up  an'  cry, 

"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

Wee  Jamie  wi'  the  curly  heid  — 

He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa'  — 
Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "  I  want  a  piece  ; " 

The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 
I  rin  an'  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, 

They  stop  awee  the  soun', 
Then  draw  the  blankets  up  an'  cry, 

"  Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon." 

But,  ere  five  minutes  gang,  wee  Rab 

Cries  out,  frae  'neath  the  claes, 
"  Mither,  mak'  Tarn  gie  ower  at  ance, 

He  's  kittlin'  wi'  his  taes." 
The  mischief 's  in  that  Tarn  for  tricks, 

He  'd  bother  half  the  toon  ; 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up  and  cry, 

"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 


At  length  they  hear  their  faither's  fit, 

An',  as  he  steeks  the  door, 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa', 

While  Tarn  pretends  to  snore. 
"  Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude  ?  "  he 
asks, 

As  he  pits  aff  his  shoon  ; 
"  The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 

An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 

An'  just  afore  we  bed  oorsels, 

We  look  at  our  wee  lambs  ; 
Tarn    has    his    airm    roun'   wee    Rab's 
neck, 

And  Rab  his  airm  round  Tarn's. 
I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed, 

An'  as  I  straik  each  croon, 
I  whisper,  till  my  heart  fills  up, 

"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

Wi'  mirth  that 's  dear  to  me  ; 
But  soon  the  big  warl's  cark  an'  care 

Will  quaten  doon  their  glee. 
Yet,  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  who  rules  aboon 
Aye  whisper,  though  their  pows  be  bald, 

"  Oh,  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 


tfp  Henrietta  ^i 


A  SEA  STORY 

SILENCE.    A  while  ago 

Shrieks  went  up  piercingly  ; 

But  now  is  the  ship  gone  down ; 

Good  ship,  well  manned,  was  she. 

There 's  a  raft  that 's  a  chance  of  life  for  one, 
This  day  upon  the  sea. 

A  chance  for  one  of  two  ; 

Young,  strong,  are  he  and  he, 


Just  in  the  manhood  prime, 

The  comelier,  verily, 

For  the  wrestle  with  wind  and  weather  and 
wave, 

In  the  life  upon  the  sea. 

One  of  them  has  a  wife 

And  little  children  three  ; 
Two  that  can  toddle  and  lisp, 

And  a  suckling  on  the  knee  : 


WALTER  CRANE 


S°3 


Naked  they  '11  go,  and  hunger  sore, 
If  he  be  lost  at  sea. 

One  has  a  dream  of  home, 

A  dream  that  well  may  be  : 

He  never  has  breathed  it  yet  ; 
She  never  has  known  it,  she. 

But  some  one  will  be  sick  at  heart 
If  he  be  lost  at  sea. 

"  Wife  and  kids  at  home  !  — 

Wife,  kids,  nor  home  has  he  !  — 

Give  us  a  chance,  Bill  !  "     Then, 
"  All  right,  Jem  !  "     Quietly 

A  man  gives  up  his  life  for  a  man, 
This  day  upon  the  sea. 

BELOVED,  IT  IS  MORN 

BELOVED,  it  is  morn  ! 

A  redder  berry  on  the  thorn, 


A  deeper  yellow  on  the  corn, 
For  this  good  day  new-born. 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 

Beloved,  it  is  day  ! 

And  lovers  work,  as  children  play, 
With  heart  and  brain  untired  alway  s 
Dear  love,  look  up  and  pray. 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 

Beloved,  it  is  night ! 

Thy  heart  and  mine  are  full  of  light, 
Thy  spirit  shineth  clear  and  white, 
God  keep  thee  in  His  sight ! 
Pray,  Sweet,  for  me 
That  I  may  be 
Faithful  to  God  and  thee. 


Crane 


A  SEAT   FOR   THREE 

WRITTEN    ON    A    SETTLE 

"A  SEAT  for  three,  where  host  and 
guest 

May  side-by-side  pass  toast  or  jest  ; 
And  be  their  number  two  or  three, 
With  elbow-room  and  liberty, 

What  need  to  wander  east  or  west  ? 

"  A  book  for  thought,  a  nook  for  rest, 
And  meet  for  fasting  or  for  fest, 
In  fair  and  equal  parts  to  be 
A  seat  for  three. 

"  Then  give  you  pleasant  company, 
For  youth  or  elder  shady  tree  ; 
A  roof  for  council  or  sequest, 
A  corner  in  a  homely  nest  ; 
Free,  equal,  and  fraternally, 
A  seat  for  three." 


ACROSS   THE   FIELDS 

ACROSS  the  fields  like  swallows  fly 
Sweet  thoughts  and  sad  of  days  gone  by  ; 
From  Life's  broad  highway  turned  away, 
Like  children,  Thought  and  Memory  play 
Nor  heed  Time's  scythe  though  grass  be 
high. 

Beneath  the  blue  and  shoreless  sky 
Time  is  but  told  when  seedlings  dry 

By  Love's  light  breath  are  blown,  like 
spray, 

Across  the  fields. 

Now  comes  the  scent  of  fallen  hay, 
And  flowers  bestrew  the  foot-worn  clay, 
And  summer  breathes  a  passing  sigh 
As  westward  rolls  the  day's  gold  eye, 
And  Time  with  Labor  ends  his  day 
Across  the  fields. 


5°4 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


<£ugmc 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH   TO   A 
CAGED    LINNET 

THOU  tiny  solace  of  these  prison  days, 
Too.  long  already  have  I  kept  thee  here  ; 
With  every  week  thou  hast  become  more 

dear  — 
So  dear   that   I    will   free    thee  :    fly   thy 

ways. 

Man,  the  alternate  slave  and  tyrant,  lays 
Too  soon  on  others  what  he  hath  to  bear. 
Thy  cage  is  in  my  cage  ;  but,  never  fear, 
The  sun  once  more  shall  bathe  thee  with 

its  rays. 
Fly  forth,  and  tell  the  sunny  woods  how 

oft 
I  think  of  them,  and  stretch  my  limbs  in 

thought 

Upon  their  fragrant  mosses  green  and  soft  ; 
And  whistle  all   the  whistlings  God   hath 

taught 

Thy  throat,  to  other  songsters  high  aloft  — 
Not  to  a  captive  who  can  answer  nought. 

IZAAK  WALTON  TO  RIVER  AND 
BROOK 

WHICH  is  more  sweet,  —  the  slow  mysteri- 
ous stream, 
Where  sleeps  the  pike  throughout  the  long 

noon  hours, 
Which  moats  with  emerald  old  cathedral 

towers, 
And  winds  through  tufted  timber  like  the 

dream 
That  glides  through  summer  sleep  ;  where 

white  swans  teem, 
And  dragonflies  and  broad-leaved  floating 

flowers, 
Where  through  the  hanging  boughs  you  see 

the  mowers 
Among  the  grasses  whet  their  scythes  that 

gleam  ; 
Or  that  blue  brook  where  leaps  the  speckled 

trout, 

That  laughs  and  sings  and  dances  on  its  way 
Among  a  thousand  bafflings  in  and  out ; 
Bubbling  and  gurgling  through  the  livelong 

.day 

Between  the  stones,  in  riot,  reel,  and  rout, 
While  rays  of  sun  make  rainbows  in  the 

spray  ? 


CHARLES    II.    OF   SPAIN    TO 
APPROACHING    DEATH 

MAKE  way,  my  lords  !  for  Death  now  once 

again 

Waits  on  the  palace  stairs.    He  comes  to  lay 
His  finger  on  my  brow.     Make  way  !  make 

way, 
Ye  whispering  groups  that  scent  an  ending 

reign  ! 

Death,  if  I  make  thee  a  grandee  of  Spain, 
And  give  thee  half  my  subjects,  wilt  thou 

stay 

Behind  the  door  a  little,  while  I  play 
With  life  a  moment  longer  ?    I  would  fain. 
Oh,  who  shall  turn  the  fatal  shadow  back 
On  Ahaz'  sundial  now  ?    Who  '11  cure  the 

king 
When   Death  awaits  him,  motionless  and 

black  ? 

Upon  the  wall  the  inexorable  thing 
Creeps  on  and  on,  with  horror  in  its  track. 
The  king  is  dying.    Bid  the  great  bells  ring. 

TO  MY  TORTOISE   CHRONOS 

THOU  vague  dumb  crawler  with  the  groping 
head 

As  listless  to  the  sun  as  to  the  showers, 

Thou  very  image  of  the  wingless  Hours 

Now  creeping  past  me  with  their  feet  of 
lead  : 

For  thee  and  me  the  same  small  garden 
bed 

Is  the  whole  world  :  the  same  half  life  is 
ours  ; 

And  year  by  year,  as  Fate  restricts  my 
powers, 

I  grow  more  like  thee,  and  the  soul  grows 
dead. 

No,  Tortoise  :  from  thy  like  in  days  of 
old 

Was  made  the  living  lyre  ;  and  mighty 
strings 

Spanned  thy  green  shell  with  pure  vibrat- 
ing gold. 

The  notes  soared  up,  on  strong  but  trem- 
bling wings, 

Through  ether's  lower  zones  ;  then,  growing 
bold, 

Spurned  earth  for  ever  and  its  wingless 
things. 


EUGENE  LEE-HAMILTON 


5°S 


SUNKEN    GOLD 

IN  dim  green  depths  rot  ingot-laden  ships  ; 
And  gold  doubloons,  that  from  the  drowned 

hand  fell, 

Lie  nestled  in  the  ocean-flower's  bell 
With  love's  old  gifts,  once  kissed  by  long- 
drowned  lips  ; 

And  round  some  wrought  gold  cup  the  sea- 
grass  whips, 
And  hides  lost  pearls,  near  pearls  still  in 

their  shell, 
Where    sea-weed    forests   fill   each   ocean 

dell 
And  seek  dim  sunlight  with  their  restless 

tips. 

So  lie  the  wasted  gifts,  the  long-lost  hopes 
Beneath  the  now  hushed  surface  of  myself, 
In  lonelier  depths  than  where  the  diver 

gropes  ; 

They  lie  deep,  deep  ;  but  I  at  times  behold 
In  doubtful  glimpses,  on  some  reefy  shelf, 
The  gleam  of  irrecoverable  gold. 


SEA-SHELL   MURMURS 

THE  hollow  sea-shell,  which  for  years  hath 

stood 
On  dusty  shelves,  when  held  against  the 

ear 

Proclaims  its  stormy  parents  ;  and  we  hear 
The  faint  far  murmur  of  the  breaking  flood. 
We  hear  the  sea.  The  sea?  It  is  the 

blood 

In  our  own  veins,  impetuous  and  near, 
And   pulses  keeping   pace  with   hope  and 

fear 

And  with  our  feelings'  every  shifting  mood. 
Lo,  in  my  heart  I  hear,  as  in  a  shell, 
The  murmur  of  a  world  beyond  the  grave, 
Distinct,  distinct,  though  faint  and  far  it  be. 
Thou  fool  ;  this  echo  is  a  cheat  as  well,  — 
The  hum  of  earthly  instincts ;  and  we 

crave 
A  world  unreal  as  the  shell-heard  sea. 


A   FLIGHT   FROM    GLORY 

ONCE,  from  the  parapet  of  gems  and  glow, 
An  Angel  said,  "  O  God,  the  heart  grows 

cold 

On  these  eternal  battlements  of  gold, 
Where  all  is  pure,  but  cold  as  virgin  snow. 


Here  sobs  are  never  heard  ;  no  salt  tears 

flow  ; 
Here  there  are  none  to  help  —  nor  sick  nor 

old; 

No  wrong  to  fight,  no  justice  to  uphold  : 
Grant  me  Thy  leave  to  live  man's  life  be- 
low." 

"  And  then  annihilation  ?  "  God  replied. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  Angel,  "  even  that  dread 

price  ; 

For  earthly  tears  are  worth  eternal  night." 
"  Then  go,"  said  God.  —  The  Angel  opened 

wide 
His  dazzling  wings,  gazed  back  on  Heaven 

thrice, 
And  plunged  for  ever  from  the  walls  of 

Light. 


WHAT   THE   SONNET   IS 

FOURTEEN  small  broidered  berries  on  the 

hem 

Of  Circe's  mantle,  each  of  magic  gold  ; 
Fourteen    of    lone    Calypso's    tears    that 

rolled 

Into  the  sea,  for  pearls  to  come  of  them  ; 
Fourteen  clear  signs  of  omen  in  the  gem 
With  which  Medea  human  fate  foretold  ; 
Fourteen    small    drops,    which     Faustus, 

growing  old, 
Craved  of  the  Fiend,  to  water  Life's  dry 

stem. 
It    is    the    pure    white     diamond    Dante 

brought 

To  Beatrice  ;  the  sapphire  Laura  wore 
When    Petrarch  cut   it  sparkling   out   of 

thought ; 
The   ruby   Shakespeare    hewed    from  his 

heart's  core  ; 
The    dark,   deep    emerald    that    Rossetti 

wrought 
For  his  own  soul,  to  wear  for  evermore. 

ON    HIS    "SONNETS    OF  THE 
WINGLESS    HOURS" 

I  WROUGHT  them  like  a  targe  of  hammered 

gold 
On  which  all  Troy  is  battling  round  and 

round  ; 
Or  Circe's  cup,  embossed  with  snakes  that 

wound 
Through  buds  and  myrtles,  fold  on  scaly 

fold  ; 


506 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Or  like  gold  coins,  which  Lydian  tombs 

may  hold, 
Stamped  with  winged  racers,  in   the  old 

red  ground  ; 
Or  twined  gold  armlets  from  the  funeral 

mound 
Of  some  great  viking,  terrible  of  old. 


I  know  not  in  what  metal  I  have  wrought  ; 
Nor  whether  what  I  fashioned  will  be  thrust 
Beneath  the  clouds  that  hide  forgotten 

thought ; 

But  if  it  is  of  gold  it  will  not  rust  ; 
And  when  the  time  is  ripe  it  will  be  brought 
Into  the  sun,  and  glitter  through  its  dust. 


JBercefcal 


THE   WHITE   BLOSSOM'S    OFF 
THE   BOG 

THE  white  blossom  's  off  the  bog  and  the 

leaves  are  off  the  trees, 
And    the    singing    birds    have    scattered 

across  the  stormy  seas  : 
And  oh  !  't  is  winter, 
Wild,  wild  winter  ! 

With  the  lonesome  wind  sighing  for  ever 
through  the  trees. 

How  green  the  leaves  were  springing  !  how 
glad  the  birds  were  singing  ! 

When  I  rested  in  the  meadow  with  my 
head  on  Patrick's  knees  ! 


And  oh  !  't  was  spring-time, 
Sweet,  sweet  spring-time  ! 
With  the  daisies  all  dancing  before  in  the 
breeze. 

With  the  spring  the  fresh  leaves  they  '11 

laugh  upon  the  trees, 
And   the   birds  they  '11  flutter  back  with 

their  songs  across  the  seas, 
But  I  '11  never  rest  again  with  my  head  on 

Patrick's  knees  ; 
And  for  me  't  will  be  winter, 
All  the  year  winter, 
With  the  lonesome  wind  sighing  for  ever 

through  the  trees. 


t refcerifta  ftirfjar&tftm 


:NEW  YEAR'S    EVE  — MIDNIGHT 

DEAD.     The   dead   year  is   lying  at  my 

feet  ; 
In  this  strange  hour  the  past  and  future 

meet ; 
There  is  no  present  ;  no  land  in  the  vast 

sea  ; 
Appalled,  I  stand  here  in  Eternity. 

Darkness  upon  me.    On  my  soul  it  weighs  ; 
The  gloom,  that  has  crushed  out  the  life  of 

days 
'That  once  knew  light,  has  crept  into  my 

heart  ; 
I  have  not  strength  to  bid  it  thence  depart. 

Oh,  what  is  Time  ?  and  what  is  Life,  the  fire 
That  thrills  my  pulses  with  its  large  de- 
sire ? 


Since  at  each  step  I  rend  a  fragment  of  my 

soul, 
And  growth  means  dying,  whither  is  the 

goal? 

The    old,    old    question !    yet    I    do    not 

shrink 
From    bitter    truths  ;    I   do    not   fear  to 

drink 
Even  to  the  dregs  the  cup  that  tears  may 

fill; 
I  'd  know  God's  truth,  though  it  were  human 

ill. 

I  have  cast  down  the  idols  in  my  mind 
Which   sought  to   comfort   me   for   being 

blind ; 

I  need  no  pleasant  lie  to  cheat  the  night, 
I    need   God's   Truth,   that    I    may  walk 

aright. 


GEORGE  BARLOW 


That,  and  that  only  !  with  unflinching  eyes 
I  would  tear    through    the  secret   of  the 

skies  ; 

Smile  on,  ye  stars  ;  in  me  there  is  a  might 
Which  dares  to  scale  your  large  empyreal 

height. 

Yet  —  yet  —  how  shall  it  be  ?    Time  sweeps 

me  on, 

And  what  one  day  I  hold,  the  next  is  gone  ; 
The  very  Heavens  are  changed  !  the  face 

they  wore, 
A  moment  back,  is  lost  to  come  no  more. 

My  soul  along  the  restless  current  drifts, 
And  to  its  sight  the  source  of   radiance 

shifts  ; 
Wildly  I  strive   some  gleam  of  truth  to 

save, 
And  cry,  "  God  help  me  !  "  battling  with 

the  wave. 


God  help  me  ?    Well  I  know  the  prayer  is 

vain, 

Although  it  rush  up  to  my  lips  again  ; 
I  know  His  help  was  given  with  the  Breath 
That  leads  me  thus   to   struggle   against 

death. 

No  further  help.  No  help  beyond  the  soul, 
The  fragment  of  Himself  I  hold  in  my 

control ; 
From  heaven,  no  stronger  aid  to  lead  me 

through  the  fight  : 
In  heaven,  no  higher  aim  to  bind  me  to 

the  Right. 

Thus  stand  I  on  the  brink  of  this  new  year, 
Darkness  upon  me  —  not  the  work  of  fear. 
Powerless  I  know  to  check  the  river's 

sweep, 
Powerful  alone   my  own   soul's   truth   to 

keep. 


THE   DEAD   CHILD 

BUT  yesterday  she   played   with   childish 

things, 

With  toys  and  painted  fruit. 
To-day   she   may  be   speeding   on  bright 

wings 

Beyond  the  stars  I     We  ask.     The  stars 
are  mute. 

But  yesterday  her  doll  was  all  in  all  ; 

She  laughed  and  was  content. 
To-day  she  will  not  answer,  if  we  call  : 

She  dropped  no  toys  to  show  the  road 
she  went. 

But  yesterday  she  smiled  and  ranged  with 

art 

Her  playthings  on  the  bed. 
To-day  and  yesterday  are  leagues  apart ! 
She  will   not  smile  to-day,  for  she  is 
dead. 

IF   ONLY   THOU   ART   TRUE 

IF  only  a  single  rose  is  left, 
Why  should  the  summer  pine  ? 


A  blade  of  grass  in  a  rocky  cleft ; 
A  single  star  to  shine. 

—  Why  should  I  sorrow  if  all  be  lost, 
If  only  thou  art  mine  ? 

If  only  a  single  bluebell  gleams 

Bright  on  the  barren  heath, 
Still  of  that  flower  the  Summer  dreams, 

Not  of  his  August  wreath. 

—  Why  should  I  sorrow  if  thou  art  mine, 
Love,  beyond  change  and  death  ? 

If  only  once  on  a  wintry  day 
The  sun  shines  forth  in  the  blue, 

He  gladdens  the  groves  till  they  laugh  as 

in  May 
And  dream  of  the  touch  of  the  dew. 

—  Why  should  I  sorrow  if  all  be  false, 
If  only  thou  art  true  ? 

THE   OLD    MAID 

SHE  gave  her  life  to  love.  She  never  knew 
What  other  women  give  their  all  to  gain. 

Others  were  fickle.  She  was  passing  true. 
She  gave  pure  love,  and  faith  without  a 
stain. 


So8 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


She    never    married.     Suitors    came    and 

went  : 
The  dark  eyes  flashed  their  love  on  one 

alone. 

Her  life  was  passed  in  quiet  and  content. 
The  old  love  reigned.     No  rival  shared 
the  throne. 

Think  you  her  life  was  wasted  ?    Vale  and 

bill 

Blossomed  in  summer,  and  white  winter 
came  ; 


The  blue  ice  stiffened  on  the  silenced  rill  ; 
All  times  and  seasons  found  her  still  the 
same. 

Her  heart  was  full  of  sweetness  till  the 

end. 
What  once   she   gave,   she  never  took 

away. 

Through  all  her  youth  she  loved  one  faith- 
ful friend  : 

She  loves  him  now  her  hair  is  growing 
gray. 


£ refceric  €&toar& 


LONDON    BRIDGE 

PROUD  and  lowly,  beggar  and  lord, 

Over  the  bridge  they  go  ; 
Rags  and  velvet,  fetter  and  sword, 

Poverty,  pomp,  and  woe. 
Laughing,  weeping,  hurrying  ever, 
Hour  by  hour  they  crowd  along, 
While,  below,  the  mighty  river 
Sings  them  all  a  mocking  song. 

Hurry  along,  sorrow  and  song, 
All  is  vanity  'neath  the  sun  ; 
Velvet  and  rags,  so  the  world  wags, 
Until  the  river  no  more  shall  run. 

Dainty,  painted,  powdered  and  gay, 

Rolleth  my  lady  by  ; 
Rags-and-tatters,  over  the  way, 

Carries  a  heart  as  high. 
Flowers   and  dreams   from    country  mea- 
dows, 

Dust  and  din  through  city  skies, 
Old  men  creeping  with  their  shadows, 
Children  with  their  sunny  eyes, — 
Hurry  along,  sorrow  and  song, 
All  is  vanity  'neath  the  sun  ; 
Velvet  and  rags,  so  the  world  wags, 
Until  the  river  no  more  shall  run. 

Storm  and  sunshine,  peace  and  strife, 

Over  the  bridge  they  go  ; 
Floating  on  in  the  tide  of  life, 

Whither  no  man  shall  know. 
Who  will  miss  them  there  to-morrow, 

Waifs  that  drift  to  the  shade  or  sun  ? 
Gone  away  with  their  songs  and  sorrow  ; 

Only  the  river  still  flows  on. 


Hurry  along,  sorrow  and  song, 
All  is  vanity  'neath  the  sun  ; 

Velvet  and  rags,  so  the  world  wags, 
Until  the  river  no  more  shall  run. 


NANCY  LEE 

OF  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know, 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  !  Yeo-ho  I 
There  's  none  like  Nancy  Lee,  I  trow, 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
See  there  she  stands  an'  waves  her  hands 

upon  the  quay, 
And   ev'ry   day   when   I  'm   away,    she  '11 

watch  for  me, 
An'  whisper  low,  when  tempests  blow  for 

Jack  at  Sea, 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
The  sailor's  wife  the  sailor's  star  shall 

be, 

Yeo-ho  !  we  go  across  the  sea  ; 
The  sailor's  wife   the  sailor's  star  shall 

be, 
The  sailor's  wife  his  star  shall  be. 

The  harbor  's  past,  the  breezes  blow  : 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
'Tis  long  ere  we  come  back,  I  know  ; 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
But  true  an'  bright  from  morn  till  night 

my  home  will  be, 
An'  all  so  neat,  an'  snug,  an'  sweet,  for 

Jack  at  sea, 
An'  Nancy's  face  to  bless  the  place,  an' 

welcome  me  ; 
Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 


FREDERIC    EDWARD   WEATHERLY 


5°9 


The  boaVn  pipes  the  watch  below, 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
Then  here  's  a  health  afore  we  go, 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
A.  long  long  life   to   my   sweet  wife  and 

mates  at  sea  ; 
An'   keep   our    bones    from    Davy   Jones 

where'er  we  be, 
An'   may   you   meet   a  mate  as  sweet  as 

Nancy  Lee  ; 

Yeo-ho  !  lads  ho  !  Yeo-ho  ! 
The  sailor's  wife  the  sailor's  star  shall 

be, 

Yeo-ho  !  we  go  across  the  sea  ; 
The  sailor's  wife  the  sailor's  star  shall 

be, 
The  sailor's  wife  his  star  shall  be. 


A   BIRD    IN    THE   HAND 

THERE  were  three  young  maids  of  Lee, 

They  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 

And  they  had  lovers  three  times  three, 

For  they  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 

These  three  young  maids  of  Lee. 

But  these  young  maids  they  cannot  find 

A  lover  each  to  suit  her  mind; 

The  plain-spoke  lad  is  far  too  rough, 

The  rich  young  lord  is  not  rich  enough, 

And  one  is  too  poor  and  one  too  tall, 

And  one  just  an  inch  too  short  for  them  all. 

"  Others  pick  and  choose  and  why  not  we  ?  " 

"  We  can  very  well  wait,"  said  the  maids 

of  Lee. 
There   were    three    young    maids   of 

Lee, 

They  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 
And  they  had  lovers  three  times  three, 
For  they  were  fair  as  fair  can  be, 
These  three  young  maids  of  Lee. 

There  are  three  old  maids  of  Lee, 

And  they  are  old  as  old  can  be, 

And  one  is  deaf,  and  one  cannot  see, 

And  they  all  are  cross  as  a  gallows  tree, 

These  three  old  maids  of  Lee. 

Now  if   any  one  chanced  —  't  is  a  chance 

remote  — 

One  single  charm  in  these  maids  to  note, 
He  need  not  a  poet  nor  handsome  be, 
For  one  is  deaf  and  one  cannot  see  ; 
He  need  not  woo  on  his  bended  knee, 
For  they  all   are   willing  as  willing  can 

be. 


He  may  take  the  one,  or  the  two,  or  the 

three, 

If  he  '11  only  take  them  away  from  Lee. 
There  are  three  old  maids  at  Lee, 
They  are  cross  as  cross  can  be, 
And  there  they  are,  and  there  they  '11  be 
To  the  end  of  the  chapter   one,  two, 

three, 
These  three  old  maids  of  Lee. 


DOUGLAS   GORDON 

"  Row  me  o'er  the  strait,  Douglas  Gordon, 
Row  me  o'er  the  strait,  my  love,"  said  she, 
"  Where  we  greeted  in  the  summer,  Doug- 
las Gordon, 
Beyond  the  little  Kirk  by  the  old,  old 

trysting  tree." 

Never  a  word  spoke  Douglas  Gordon, 
But  he  looked  into  her  eyes  so  tenderly, 
And  he  set  her  at  his  side, 
And  away  across  the  tide 
They  floated  to  the  little  Kirk, 
And  the  old,  old  trysting  tree. 

"  Give  me  a  word  of  love,  Douglas  Gordon, 

Just  a  word  of  pity,  O  my  love,"  said  she, 

"  For  the  bells  will  ring  to-morrow,  Douglas 

Gordon, 
My  wedding  bells,  my  love,  but  not  for 

you  and  me. 
They  told    me    you   were   false,  Douglas 

Gordon, 

And  you  never  came  to  comfort  me  !  " 
And  she  saw  the  great  tears  rise, 
In  her  lover's  silent  eyes, 
As  they  drifted  to  the  little  Kirk, 
And  the  old,  old,  trysting  tree. 

"  And   it 's   never,  never,   never,    Douglas 

Gordon, 
Never  in  this  world  that  you  may  come 

to  me, 
But  tell   me   that   you   love  me,   Douglas 

Gordon, 
And  kiss  me  for  the  love  of  all  that  used 

to  be  !  " 
Then  he  flung  away  his  sail,  his  oars  and 

rudder, 

And  he  took  her  in  his  arms  so  tenderly. 
And  they  drifted  on  amain, 
And  the  bells  may  call  in  vain, 
For  she  and  Douglas  Gordon 
Are  drowned  in  the  sea. 


5io 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT    BRITAIN 


DARBY   AND   JOAN 

DARBY  dear,  we  are  old  and  gray, 
Fifty  years  since  our  wedding  day, 
Shadow  and  sun  for  every  one 
As  the  years  roll  on  ; 
Darby  dear,  when  the  world  went  wry, 
Hard  and  sorrowful  then  was  I  — 
Ah  !  lad,  how  you  cheered  me  then, 
Things  will  be  better,  sweet  wife,  again  ! 
Always  the  same,  Darby  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 

Darby,  dear,  but  my  heart  was  wild 
When  we  buried  our  baby  child, 
Until  you  whispered  "  Heav'n  knows  best !  " 
And  my  heart  found  rest ; 


Darby,  dear,  't  was  your  loving  hand 
Showed  the  way  to  the  better  land  — 
Ah  !  lad,  as  you  kiss'd  each  tear, 
Life  grew  better,  and  Heaven  more  near 
Always  the  same,  Darby  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 

Hand  in  hand  when  our  life  was  May, 
Hand  in  hand  when  our  hair  is  gray, 
Shadow  and  sun  for  every  one, 
As  the  years  roll  on  ; 
Hand  in  hand  when  the  long  night-tide 
Gently  covers  us  side  by  side  — 
Ah  !  lad,  though  we  know  not  when, 
Love  will  be  with  us  forever  then  : 
Always  the  same,  Darby,  my  own, 
Always  the  same  to  your  old  wife  Joan. 


Catherine  C  EtttoeU 

(C.   C.   FRASER-TYTLER) 


JESUS   THE    CARPENTER 

"  Is  N'T  this  Joseph's  son  ?  "  —  ay,  it  is  He  ; 
Joseph  the  carpenter  —  same  trade  as  me  — 
I  thought  as  I  'd  find  it  —  I  knew  it  was 

here  — 
But  my  sight 's  getting  queer. 

I  don't  know  right  where  as  His  shed  must 

ha'  stood  — 

But  often,  as  I  've  been  a-planing  my  wood, 
I  've  took  off  my  hat,  just  with  thinking  of 

He 
At  the  same  work  as  me. 

He  war  n't  that  set  up  that  He  couldn't 

stoop  down 
And  work  in  the  country  for  folks  in  the 

town  ; 
And  I  '11  warrant  He  felt  a  bit  pride,  like 

I  've  done 
At  a  good  job  begun. 

The  parson  he  knows  that  I  '11  not  make 

too  free, 

But  on  Sunday  I  feels  as  pleased  as  can  be, 
When  I  wears  my  clean  smock,  and  sits  in 

a  pew, 
And  has  thoughts  a  few. 


I  think  of  as  how  not  the  parson  hissen, 
As  is  teacher  and  father  and  shepherd  o' 

men, 
Not  he  knows  as  much  of  the  Lord  in  that 

shed, 
Where  He  earned  His  own  bread. 

And  when  I  goes  home  to  my  missus,  says 

she, 

"  Are  ye  wanting  your  key  ?  " 
For  she  knows  my  queer  ways,  and  my  love 

for  the  shed, 
(We  've  been  forty  years  wed.) 

So  I  comes  right  away  by  mysen,  with  the 

book, 
And  I  turns  the  old  pages  and  has  a  good 

look 
For  the  text  as  I  've  found,  as  tells  me  as 

He 
Were  the  same  trade  as  me. 

Why   don't   I   mark   it  ?     Ah,  many  says 

so, 
But  I  think  I  'd  as  lief,  with  your  leaves,  let 

it  go  : 
It   do   seem   that   nice  when  I  fall  on  it 

sudden  — 
Unexpected,  you  know ! 


EDMUND   GOSSE 


THE   POET    IN    THE   CITY 

THE  Poet  stood  in  the  sombre  town, 
And  spake  to  his  heart,  and  said, 

"  O  weary  prison,  devised  by  man  ! 
O  seasonless  place,  and  dead  !  " 

His  heart  was  sad,  for  afar  he  heard 
The  sound  of  the  Spring's  light  tread. 

He  thought  he  saw  in  the  pearly  east 

The  pale  March  sun  arise, 
The  happy  housewife  beneath  the  thatch, 

With  hand  above  her  eyes, 
Look  out  to  the  cawing  rooks,  that  built 

So  near  to  the  quiet  skies. 

Out  of  the  smoke,  and  noise,  and  sin 
The  heart  of  the  Poet  cried  : 

"  O  God  !  but  to  be  Thy  laborer  there, 
On  the  gentle  hill's  green  side, 

To    leave    the    struggle    of    want    and 

wealth, 
And  the  battle  of  lust  and  pride  !  " 

He  bent  his  ear,  and  he  heard  afar 
The  growing  of  tender  things, 


And  his  heart  broke  forth  with  the  travail- 
ing earth, 

And  shook  with  the  tremulous  wings 
Of  sweet  brown  birds,  that  had  never  known 

The  dirge  of  the  city's  sins. 

And  later,  —  when  all  the  earth  was  green 

As  the  Garden  of  the  Lord, 
Primroses  opening  their  innocent  face, 

Cowslips  scattered  abroad, 
Bluebells  mimicking  summer  skies, 

And  the  song  of  the  thrush  outpoured,  — 

The  changeless  days  were  so  sad  to  him, 
That  the  Poet's  heart  beat  strong, 

And  he  struggled  as  some  poor  caged  lark, 
And  he  cried  :  "  How  long,  how  long  ? 

I  have  missed  a  spring  I  can  never  see, 
And  the  singing  of  birds  is  gone  ! " 

But  when  the  time  of  the  roses  came, 
And  the  nightingale  hushed  her  lay, 

The  Poet,  still  in  the  dusty  town, 
Went  quietly  on  his  way  — 

A  poorer  poet  by  just  one  Spring, 
And  a  richer  man  by  one  suffering. 


LYING    IN    THE   GRASS 

BETWEEN   two   golden   tufts    of    summer 

grass, 
I  see  the  world  through  hot  air  as  through 

glass, 
And  by  my  face  sweet  lights  and  colors 

pass. 

Before  me,  dark  against  the  fading  sky, 
I  watch  three  mowers  mowing,  as  I  lie  : 
With  brawny  arms  they  sweep  in  harmony. 

Brown  English  faces  by  the  sun  burnt  red, 
Rich   glowing   color   on    bare   throat   and 

head, 
My  heart  would  leap  to  watch  them,  were 

I  dead ! 

And  in  my  strong  young  living  as  I  lie, 
I  seem  to  move  with  them  in  harmony,  — 
A  fourth  is  mowing,  and  that  fourth  am  I. 


The  music  of  the  scythes  that  glide  and 

leap, 
The  young  men  whistling  as  their  great 

arms  sweep, 
And  all  the  perfume  and  sweet  sense  of 

sleep, 

The    weary    butterflies    that  droop    their 

wings, 

The  dreamy  nightingale  that  hardly  sings, 
And  all  the  lassitude  of  happy  things, 

Are  mingling  with  the  warm  and  pulsing 

blood 
That  gushes  through  my  veins  a  languid 

flood, 
And  feeds  my  spirit  as  the  sap  a  bud. 

Behind  the  mowers,  on  the  amber  air, 

A  dark-green  beech  wood  rises,  still  and 

fair, 
A  white  path  winding  up  it  like  a  stair. 


512 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


And  see  that  girl,  with  pitcher  on  her  head, 
And   clean  white  apron  on  her  gown   of 

red,  — 
Her  even-song  of  love  is  but  half-said  : 

She  waits  the  youngest  mower.  Now  he 
goes  ; 

Her  cheeks  are  redder  than  a  wild  blush- 
rose  : 

They  climb  up  where  the  deepest  shadows 
close. 

But  though  they  pass,  and  vanish,  I  am 

there. 
I  watch  his  rough  hands  meet  beneath  her 

hair, 
Their  broken  speech  sounds  sweet  to  me 

like  prayer. 

Ah  !  now  the  rosy  children  come  to  play, 
And  romp  and  struggle  with  the  new-mown 

hay; 
Their   clear  high  voices   sound   from   far 

away. 

They  know  so  little  why  the  world  is  sad, 
They  dig  themselves  warm  graves  and  yet 

are  glad  ; 
Their  muffled  screams  and  laughter  make 

me  mad ! 

I  long  to  go  and  play  among  them  there  ; 
Unseen,  like  wind,  to  take  them  by  the  hair, 
And  gently  make  their  rosy  cheeks  more 
fair. 

The  happy  children  !  full  of  frank  surprise, 
And  sudden  whims  and  innocent  ecstasies  ; 
What  godhead  sparkles  from  their  liquid 
eyes  ! 

No  wonder  round  those  urns  of  mingled 

clays 

That  Tuscan  potters  fashioned  in  old  days, 
And  colored  like  the  torrid  earth  ablaze, 

We  find  the  little  gods  and  loves  portrayed, 
Through  ancient  forests  wandering  undis- 
mayed, 
And  fluting  hymns  of  pleasure  unafraid. 

They  knew,  as  I  do  now,  what  keen  delight 
A  strong  man  feels  to  watch  the  tender 

flight 
Of  little  children  playing  in  his  sight ; 


What  pure  sweet  pleasure,  and  what  sacred 

love, 

Come  drifting  down  upon  us  from  above, 
In  watching  how  their  limbs  and  features 

move. 

I  do  not  hunger  for  a  well-stored  mind  ; 
I  only  wish  to  live  my  life,  and  find 
My  heart  in  unison  with  all  mankind 

My  life  is  like  the  single  dewy  star 

That  trembles  on  the  horizon's  primrose* 

bar,  — 
A  microcosm  where  all  things  living  are. 

And  if,  among  the  noiseless  grasses,  Death 
Should   come   behind   and  take  away  my 

breath, 
I  should  not  rise  as  one  who  sorroweth  ; 

For  I  should  pass,  but  all  the  world  would 

be 

Full  of  desire  and  young  delight  and  glee, 
And  why  should  men  be  sad  through  loss 

of  me  ? 

The  light  is  flying  ;  in  the  silver-blue 
The  young  moon  shines  from  her  bright 

window  through  : 
The  mowers  are  all  gone,  and  I  go  too. 


WHAT   curled   and   scented   sun-girls,  al- 
mond-eyed, 

With  lotos-blossoms  in  their  hands  and  hair, 
Have  made  their  swarthy  lovers  call  them 

fair, 
With  these  spent  strings,  when  brutes  were 

deified, 
And   Memnon   in  the  sunrise  sprang  and 

cried, 
And  love-winds  smote  Bubastis,  and  the 

bare 
Black  breasts  of  carven  Pasht  received  the 

prayer 
Of  suppliants  bearing  gifts  from  far  and 

wide  ! 

This  lute  has  out-sung  Egypt  ;  all  the  lives 
Of  violent  passion,  and  the  vast  calm  art 
That  lasts  in  granite  only,  all  lie  dead  ; 
This  little  bird  of  song  alone  survives, 
As  fresh  as  when  its  fluting  smote  the  heart 
Last  time  the  brown  slave  wore  it  garlanded. 


EDMUND  GOSSE 


THE   PIPE-PLAYER 

COOL,   and  palm-shaded   from   the   torrid 

heat, 

The  young  brown  tenor  puts  his  singing  by, 
And  sets  the  twin  pipe  to  his  lips  to  try 
Some  air  of  bulrush-glooms  where  lovers 

meet ; 

O  swart  musician,  time  and  fame  are  fleet, 
Brief  all  delight,  and  youth's  feet  fain  to 

fly! 
Pipe  on  in   peace  .'     To-morrow  must  we 

die? 

What  matter,  if  our  life  to-day  be  sweet  ! 
Soon,  soon,  the  silver  paper-reeds  that  sigh 
Along  the  Sacred  River  will  repeat 
The  echo  of  the  dark-stoled  bearers'  feet, 
Who  carry  you,  with  wailing,  where  must 

lie 
Your  swarthed  and  withered  body,  by  and 

by 

In  perfumed  darkness  with  the  grains  of 
wheat. 

HANS    CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN 

1805-1875 

A  BEING  cleaves  the  moonlit  air, 

With  eyes  of  dew  and  plumes  of  fire, 
New-born,  immortal,  strong  and  fair  ; 

Glance  ere  he  goes  ! 
His  feet  are  shrouded  like  the  dead, 

But  in  his  face  a  wild  desire 
Breaks  like  the  dawn  that  flushes  red, 
And  like  a  rose. 

The  stars  shine  out  above  his  path, 

And  music  wakes  through  all  the  skies  ; 
What  mortal  such  a  triumph  hath, 

By  death  set  free  ? 
What  earthly  hands  and  heart  are  pure 

As  this  man's,  whose  unshrinking  eyes 
Gaze  onward  through  the  deep  obscure, 
Nor  quail  to  see  ? 

Ah  !  this  was  he  who  drank  the  fount 
Of  wisdom  set  in  speechless  things, 
Who,  patient,  watched  the  day-star  mount, 

While  others  slept. 
Ah  !  this  was  he  whose  loving  soul 

Found      heart-beats      under     trembling 

wings, 
And  heard  divinest  music  roll 

Where  wild  springs  leapt. 


For  poor  dumb  lips  had  songs  for  him 

And  children's  dreamiugs  ran  in  tune, 
And  strange  old  heroes,  weird  and  dim, 

Walked  by  his  side. 
The  very  shadows  loved  him  well 

And  danced  and  flickered  in  the  moona 
And  left  him  wondrous  tales  to  tell 
Men  far  and  wide. 

And  now  no  more  he  smiling  walks 

Through  greenwood  alleys  full  of  sun. 
And,  as  he  wanders,  turns  and  talks, 

Though  none  be  there  ; 
The  children  watch  in  vain  the  place 
Where  they  were  wont,  when  day  was 

done, 

To  see  their  poet's  sweet  worn  face, 
And  faded  hair. 

Yet  dream  not  such  a  spirit  dies, 

Though  all  its  earthly  shrine  decay  ! 
Transfigured  under  clearer  skies, 

He  sings  anew; 
The  frail  soul-covering,  racked  with  pain, 

And  scored  with  vigil,  fades  away, 
The  soul  set  free  and  young  again 
Glides  upward  through. 

Weep  not  ;  but  watch  the  moonlit  air  ! 

Perchance  a  glory  like  a  star 
May  leave  what  hangs  about  him  there, 

And  flash  on  us  !  ... 
Behold  !  the  void  is  full  of  light, 

The  beams  pierce  heaven  from  bar  to  bar, 
And  all  the  hollows  of  the  night 
Grow  luminous  ! 


DE   ROSIS    HIBERNIS 

AMBITIOUS  Nile,  thy  banks  deplore 

Their  Flavian  patron's  deep  decay  ; 
Thy  Memphiaii  pilot  laughs  no  more 

To  see  the  flower-boat  float  away  ; 
Thy  winter-roses  once  were  twined 

Across  the  gala-streets  of  Rome, 
And  thou,  like  Omphale,  couldst  bind 

The  vanquished  victor  in  his  home. 

But  if  the  barge  that  brought  thy  store 
Had  foundered  in  the  Lybian  deep, 

It  had  not  slain  thy  glory  more, 

Nor  plunged  thy  rose  in  salter  sleep  ; 

Nor  gods  nor  Caesars  wait  thee  now, 
No  jealous  Passtum  dreads  thy  spring, 


5*4 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Thy  flower  enfolds  no  augur's  brow, 
Nor  gives  thy  poet  strength  to  sing. 

Yet,  surely,  when  the  winds  are  low, 

And  heaven  is  all  alive  with  stars, 
Thy  conscious  roses  still  must  glow 

Above  thy  dreaming  nenuphars  ; 
They  recollect  their  high  estate, 

The  Roman  honors  they  have  known, 
&nd  while  they  ponder  Caesar's  fate 

They  cease  to  marvel  at  their  own. 


THEOCRITUS 

THE  poplars  and  the  ancient  elms 
Make  murmurous  noises  high  in  air  ; 

The  noon-day  sunlight  overwhelms 
The  brown  cicalas  basking  there  ; 

But  here  the  shade  is  deep,  and  sweet 
With  new-mown  grass  and  lentisk-shoots, 

And  far  away  the  shepherds  meet 

With  noisy  fifes  and  flutes. 

Their  clamor  dies  upon  the  ear  ; 

So  now  bring  forth  the  rolls  of  song, 
Mouth  the  rich  cadences,  nor  fear 

Your  voice  may  do  the  poet  wrong  ; 
Lift  up  the  chalice  to  our  lips,  — 

Yet  see,  before  we  venture  thus, 
A  stream  of  red  libation  drips 

To  great  Theocritus. 

We  are  in'  Sicily  to-day  ; 

And,  as  the  honeyed  metre  flows, 
Battos  and  Cory  don,  at  play, 

Will  lose  the  syrinx,  gain  the  rose  ; 
Soft  Amaryllis,  too,  will  bind 

Dark  violets  round  her  shining  hair, 
And  in  the  fountain  laugh  to  find 

Her  sun-browned  face  so  fair. 

We  are  in  Sicily  to-day  ; 

Ah  !  foolish  world,  too  sadly  wise, 
Why  didst  thou  e'er  let  fade  away 

Those  ancient,  innocent  ecstasies  ? 
Along  the  glens,  in  checkered  flight, 

Hither  to-day  the  nymphs  shall  flee, 
And  Pan  forsake  for  our  delight 
The  tomb  of  Helice. 

WITH   A   COPY   OF   HERRICK 

FRESH  with  all  airs  of  woodland  brooks 
And  scents  of  showers, 


Take  to  your  haunt  of  holy  books 
This  saint  of  flowers. 

When  meadows  burn  with  budding  May, 

And  heaven  is  blue, 
Before  his  shrine  our  prayers  we  say,  — 

Saint  Robin  true. 

Love  crowned  with  thorns  is  on  his  staff,  - 

Thorns  of  sweet  briar  ; 
His  benediction  is  a  laugh, 

Birds  are  his  choir. 

His  sacred  robe  of  white  and  red 

Unction  distils  ; 
He  hath  a  nimbus  round  his  head 

Of  daffodils. 


THE   VOICE   OF   D.  G.  R. 

FROM  this  carved  chair  wherein  I  sit  to- 
night, 
The  dead  man  read  in  accents  deep  and 

strong, 
Through  lips  that  were  like  Chaucer's,  his 

great  song 

About  the  Beryl  and  its  virgin  light  ; 
And  still  that  music  lives  in  death's  despite, 
And   though  my  pilgrimage   on  earth  be 

long, 

Time  cannot  do  my  memory  so  much  wrong 
As  e'er  to  make  that  gracious  voice  take 

flight. 
I   sit   here   with   closed   eyes  ;   the   sound 

comes  back, 
With  youth,  and   hope,   and  glory  on  its 

track, 

A  solemn  organ-music  of  the  mind  ; 
So,  when  the  oracular  moon  brings  back 

the  tide, 

After  long  drought,  the  sandy  channel  wide 
Murmurs  with  waves,  and  sings  beneath 

the  wind. 

SONG   FOR    MUSIC 

COUNT  the  flashes  in  the  surf, 

Count  the  crystals  in  the  snow, 
Or  the  blades  above  the  turf, 

Or  the  dead  that  sleep  below  ! 

These  ye  count  — yet  shall  not  know, — 
While  I  wake  or  while  I  slumber,  — 

Where  my  thoughts  and  wishes  go, 
What  her  name,  and  what  their  number. 


THfiOPHILE  MARZIALS 


Ask  the  cold  and  midnight  sea, 
Ask  the  silent-falling  frost, 

Ask  the  grasses  on  the  lea, 

Or  the  mad  maid,  passion-crost ! 


They  may  tell  of  posies  tost 
To  the  waves  where  blossoms  blow  not, 

Tell  of  hearts  that  staked  and  lost,  — 
But  of  me  and  mine  they  know  not. 


A   PASTORAL 

FLOWER  of  the  medlar, 

Crimson  of  the  quince, 
I  saw  her  at  the  blossom-time, 

And  loved  her  ever  since  ! 
She  swept  the  draughty  pleasance, 

The  blooms  had  left  the  trees, 
The  whilst  the  birds  sang  canticles, 

In  cherry  symphonies. 

Whiteness  of  the  white  rose, 

Redness  of  the  red, 
She  went  to  cut  the  blush-rose  buds 

To  tie  at  the  altar-head  ; 
And  some  she  laid  in  her  bosom, 

And  some  around  her  brows, 
And,  as  she  passed,  the  lily-heads 

All  becked  and  made  their  bows. 

Scarlet  of  the  poppy, 

Yellow  of  the  corn, 
The  men  were  at  the  garnering, 

A-shouting  in  the  morn  ; 
I  chased  her  to  a  pippin-tree,  — 

The  waking  birds  all  whist,  — 
And  oh  !  it  was  the  sweetest  kiss 

That  I  have  ever  kiss'd. 

Marjorie,  mint,  and  violets 

A-drying  round  us  set, 
'T  was  all  done  in  the  faience-room 

A-spicing  marmalet  ; 
On  one  tile  was  a  satyr, 

On  one  a  nymph  at  bay, 
Methinks  the  birds  will  scarce  be  home 

To  wake  our  wedding-day  ! 


TWICKENHAM    FERRY 

AHOY  !    and  O-ho  !   and  it 's  who  's   for 

the  ferry  ?  " 

(The  briar 's  in  bud  and  the  sun  going 
down) 


"  And  I  '11  row  ye  so  quick  and  I  '11  row  ye 

so  steady, 
And  't  is  but  a  penny  to  Twickenham 

Town." 
The  ferryman  's  slim  and  the  ferryman 's 

young, 
With  just  a  soft  tang  in  the  turn  of  his 

tongue  ; 
And  he  's  fresh  as  a  pippin  and  brown  as  a 

berry, 

And  't  is  but  a  penny  to  Twickenham 
Town. 

"  Ahoy  !  and  O-ho  !  and  it 's  I  'm  for  the 

ferry," 
(The  briar 's  in  bud  and  the  sun  going 

down) 
"  And  it 's  late  as  it   is  and  I   have  n't  a 

penny  — 
Oh  !  how  can  I  get  me  to  Twickenham 

Town  ?  " 
She  'd  a  rose  in  her  bonnet,  and  oh  !  she 

look'd  sweet 
As  the  little  pink  flower  that  grows  in 

the  wheat, 
With  her  cheeks  like  a  rose  and  her  lips 

like  a  cherry  — 

"  It 's    sure    but   you  're   welcome    to 
Twickenham  Town." 

"  Ahoy  !   and   O-ho  !  "  —  You  're   too  late 

for  the  ferry, 
(The  briar's  in  bud  and  the  sun  has 

gone  down) 
And  he  's  not  rowing  quick  and  he  's  not 

rowing  steady  ; 

It  seems  quite  a  journey  to  Twicken- 
ham Town. 
"  Ahoy  !   and   O-ho  ! "  you  may  call  as 

you  will  ; 
The  young  moon  is  rising  o'er  Petersham 

Hill; 
And,  with  Love  like  a  rose  in  the  stern  of 

the  wherry, 

There  's  danger  in  crossing  to  Twick- 
enham Town. 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


MAY   MARGARET 

IF  you  be  that  May  Margaret 

That  lived  on  Kendal  Green, 
Then  where  's  that  sunny  hair  of  yours 

That  crowned  you  like  a  queen  ? 
That  sunny  hair  is  dim,  lad, 

They  said  was  like  a  crown  — 
The  red  gold  turned  to  gray,  lad, 

The  night  a  ship  went  down. 

If  you  be  yet  May  Margaret, 

May  Margaret  now  as  then, 
Then  where  's  that  bonny  smile  of  yours 

That  broke  the  hearts  of  men  ? 
The  bonny  smile  is  wan,  lad, 

That  once  was  glad  as  day  — 
And  oh  !  't  is  weary  smiling 

To  keep  the  tears  away. 

If  you  be  yet  May  Margaret, 

As  yet  you  swear  to  me, 
Then  where 's  that  proud,  cold  heart  of 
yours 

That  sent  your  love  to  sea  ? 
Ah  !  me,  that  heart  is  broken, 

The  proud  cold  heart  has  bled 
For  one  light  word  outspoken, 

For  all  the  love  unsaid. 

Then  Margaret,  my  Margaret, 

If  all  you  say  be  true, 
Your  hair  is  yet  the  sunniest  gold, 

Your  eyes  the  sweetest  blue. 
And  dearer  yet  and  fairer  yet 

For  all  the  coming  years  — 
The  fairer  for  the  waiting, 

The  dearer  for  the  tears  ! 

LAST   NIGHT 
(FROM  THE  SWEDISH) 

LAST  night  the  nightingale  waked  me, 
Last  night  when  all  was  still ; 


It  sang  in  the  golden  moonlight 
From  out  the  woodland  hill. 

I  opened  the  window  gently, 
And  all  was  dreamy  dew  — 

And  oh  !  the  bird,  my  darling, 
Was  singing,  singing  of  you  ! 

I  think  of  you  in  the  day-time  ; 

I  dream  of  you  by  night  — 
I  wake  —  would  you  were  near  me  . 

And  hot  tears  blind  my  sight. 
I  hear  a  sigh  in  the  lime-tree, 

The  wind  is  floating  through, 
And  oh  !  the  night,  my  darling, 

Is  longing,  longing  for  you. 

Nor  think  I  can  forget  you  ! 

I  could  not  though  I  would  ! 
I  see  you  in  all  around  me,  — 

The  stream,  the  night,  the  wood ; 
The  flowers  that  sleep  so  gently, 

The  stars  above  the  blue, 
Oh  !  heaven  itself,  my  darling, 

Is  praying,  praying  for  you. 

CARPE    DIEM 

TO-DAY,  what  is  there  in  the  air 
That  makes  December  seem  sweet  May  ? 
There  are  no  swallows  anywhere, 
Nor  crocuses  to  crown  your  hair, 
And  hail  you  down  my  garden  way. 

Last  night  the  full  moon's  frozen  stare 
Struck  me,  perhaps  ;  or  did  you  say 
Really, — you  'd  come,  sweet  friend  and  fair ! 
To-day? 

To-day  is  here  :  —  come  !  crown  to-day 

With  Spring's  delight  or  Spring's  despair, 
Love  cannot  bide  old  Time's  delay  :  — 
Down  my  glad  gardens  light  winds  play, 
And  my  whole  life  shall  bloom  and  bear 
To-day. 


milter 

BELOW  THE  HEIGHTS 


I  SAT  at  Berne,  and  watched  the  chain 

Of  icy  peaks  and  passes, 
That  towered  like  gods  above  the  plain, 

In  stern  majestic  masses. 


$oHocfe 


I  waited  till  the  evening  light 
Upon  their  heads  descended  ; 

They  caught  it  on  their  glittering  height, 
And  held  it  there  suspended. 

I  saw  the  red  spread  o'er  the  white, 
How  like  a  maiden's  blushing, 


MICHAEL   FIELD 


517 


Till  all  were  hid  in  rosy  light 

That  seemed  from  heaven  rushing  ; 

The  dead  white  snow  was  flushed  with  life, 

As  if  a  new  Pygmalion 
Had  sought  to  find  himself  a  wife 

In  stones  that  saw  Deucalion. 

Too  soon  the  light  began  to  wane  ; 

It  lingered  soft  and  tender, 
And  the  snow-giants  sank  again 

Into  their  cold  dead  splendor. 

And,  as  I  watched  the  last  faint  glow, 

I  turned  as  pale  as  they  did, 
And  sighed  to  think  that  on  the  snow 

The  rose  so  quickly  faded. 

A  CONQUEST 

I  FOUND  him  openly  wearing  her  token  ; 
I    knew   that  her   troth    could    never   be 

broken  ; 

I  laid  my  hand  on  the  hilt  of  my  sword,  — 
He  did  the  same,  and  he  spoke  no  word  ; 
I  faced  him  with  his  villainy  ; 
He  laughed,  and  said,  "  She  gave  it  me." 
We  searched  for  seconds,  they  soon  were 

found  ; 
They  measured  our  swords  ;  they  measured 

the  ground  ; 

They  held  to  the  deadly  work  too  fast  ; 
They  thought  to  gain  our  place  at  last. 
We  fought  in  the  sheen  of  a  wintry  wood  ; 
The   fair   white   snow   was    red    with   his 

blood  ; 

But  his  was  the  victory,  for,  as  he  died, 
He  swore  by  the  rood  that  he  had  not  lied. 

FATHER   FRANCIS 

'  I  COME  your  sin-rid  souls  to  shrive  ; 
is  this  the  way  wherein  ye  live  ?  " 


We  lightly  think  of  virtue, 
Enjoyment  cannot  hurt  you. 

"  Ye  love.     Hear  then  of  chivalry, 
Of  gallant  truth  and  constancy." 

We  find  new  loves  the  meetest, 
And  stolen  kisses  sweetest. 

"  Voices  ye  have.     Then  should  ye  sing 
In  praise  of  heaven's  mighty  king." 
We  deem  it  is  our  duty 
To  chant  our  darlings'  beauty. 

"  Strait  are  the  gates  of  worldly  pleasure  ; 

The  joy  beyond  no  soul  can  measure." 
Alas  !  we  are  but  mortal, 
And  much  prefer  the  portal. 

"  Nay,  sons  :  then  must  I  leave  ye  so  ; 
But  lost  will  be  your  souls,  I  trow." 

Nay,  Father,  make  you  merry  ; 

Come,  drawer,  bring  some  sherry. 

"  Me  drink  ?     Old  birds  are  not  unwary  — 
Still  less  —  Ha  —  well  —  't  is  fine  canary." 
Mark  how  his  old  blood  prances  — 
A  stoup  for  Father  Francis  ! 

"  Your  wine,  my  sons,  is  wondrous  good, 
And  hath  been  long  time  in  the  wood." 
Mark  how  his  old  eye  dances  — 
More  wine  for  Father  Francis  ! 

"  A  man,  my  sons  —  a  man,  I  say, 
Might  well  drink  here  till  judgment-day." 
Now  for  soft  words  and  glances  — 
But  where  is  Father  Francis  ? 

"  Heed  me,  my  sons,  I  pray,  no  more  ; 
I  always  sleep  upon  the  floor." 

Alas  !  for  old  wine's  chances  ; 

A  shutter  for  Father  Francis  ! 


FROM  ; CANUTE  THE  GREAT" 

SCENE.  — A  room  on  the  northern  bank  of  the 

Thames. 
Enter  CANUTE. 

Canute.      She  dared  not  wait  my  com- 
ing, and  shall  look 


fidto 

No  more  upon  my  face.  —  A  vacancy, 

A  blank  !  that  scarf    left   trailing  on  the 

floor, 
A  shred  too  of  her  robe,  —  I  must  have 

trampled, 
Have  hurt   her,  as   I  thrust   her  off.     A 

shred, 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


A  tag,  and  is  it  thus  that  women  suffer  ? 
We  can  inflict  so  little  on  such  natures  ; 
We  cannot  make  reprisals.     Slavish  tears 
For   Edric,    and,  —  O    Hel  !  —  a   bloody 

gleam 
Across  her  eyes,  when  I  proclaimed  the 

rights 

Of  Edmund's  children.     I  am  cut  adrift, 
Far,  far  from  the  great,  civilizing  God,  — 
Dull,  speechless,  unappraised. 
[A  voice  singing.]     Is  that  a  child 
At  babble  with  his  vespers  ? — Silver  sweet  ! 
It  minds  me  of  the  holy  brotherhood, 
Chanting  adown  the  banks.      As  yesterday 
I  see  all  clear,  how  as  they  moved  they 

chanted, 

And  made  a  mute  procession  in  the  stream. 
[Gazing  abstractedly  on  the  water.] 

Merrily  sang  the  monks  of  Ely, 

A  s  Canute  the  king  passed  by. 

Row  to  the  shore,  knights,  said  the  king, 

A  nd  let  us  hear  the  Churchmen  sing. 

Still  are  they  singing  ?     It  was  Candlemas, 
My  queen  sat  splendid  at  the  prow  and  lis- 
tened 
With   heaving   breast.     'Twas    then    the 

passion  seized  me 

To  emulate,  to  let  her  know  my  ear 
Had   common   pleasure    with   her,   and    I 

thrilled 
The  story  out.      The  look  she  turned  on 

me  ! 

The  choir  shall  sing  this  music.     I  resolved 
In  the  glory  of  the  verse  to  civilize 
My  blood,  to  sweeten  it,  to  give  it  law, 
To  curb  my  wild  thoughts  with  the  rein  of 

metre. 

Row  to  the  shore  !     So  pleasantly  it  ran, 
A  ripple  on  the  wave.     I  grew  ambitious 
To  be  a  scholar  like  King  Alfred,  gather 
Wise  men  about  me,  in  myself  possess 
A    treasure,    an     enchantment.     For     an 

instant 

I  looked  round  royally,  and  felt  a  king. 
The  abbey-chant,  the  stream,  the  meadow- 
land, 
The  willows  glimmering  in  the  sun  ;  —  a 

poet 
Wins  things  to  come  so  close.     A  plash,  a 

gurgle  ! 
There 's   a    black  memory   for   the   river 

now  ; 

And  hark  !   strange,  solemn,  Latin  words 
that  toll, 


And  move  on  slowly  to  me  .  .  .  Up  the 

stair. 
Without  the  door.     A  wail,  a  litany  ! 

Enter  Child  singing. 
Child.     Miserere    mei,    Deus,    secundam 

magnam  misericordiam  tuam  ; 
Et     secundum    multitudinem     miserationum 

tuarum,  dele  iniquitatem  meam. 
Can.     How     perfectly     he     sings     the 

music  !     Child, 
Who  art  thou  with  that  voice,  those  dying 

cheeks  ? 

Art  thou  an  angel  sent  to  wring  my  heart, 
Or    is   it    mortal  woe  ?      Thine  arms  are 

full. 
Child.     Green,  country  herbs,  they  say, 

will  staunch  a  wound, 
And   I    have   run    about    the    fields   and 

gathered 
Those  I  could  catch  up  quickly  :  —  for  the 

blood 
Was  leaping  all  the  while.     But  here  is 

clary, 

The  blessed  thistle,  yarrow,  sicklewort, 
And  all-heal  red  as  gore.     I  knew  a  wood 
So  dark  and  cool,  I  crept  for  lily-leaves  ; 
Then  it  grew  lonely,  and  I  lost  the  way. 
But,  oh,  you  must  not  beat  me  ;  it  is  done. 
Father,  I   stabbed    him,  throw    away    the 

whip  ! 
Now  God  will  scourge  me.     So  I  plucked 

the  flowers, 

And  sang  for  mercy  in  the  holy  words 
Priest  Sampson  taught  me,  Miserere  ! 

Can.  This 

Is  Edric's  child,  the  little  murderer, 
Who  did  my  deed  of  treason.      Edmund, 

turn 
Those  trustful  eyes  from  off  me. 

Child.  Take  me  back. 

He  will    be  dead  .  .  .  He  fell,  O  father, 

fell, 

And  when  I  put  my  cheek  against  his  side, 
Gave  a  great  pant.      Let 's  pray  for  him 

together. 

Can  you  sing  Miserere  ?     For  I  did  it, 
And  then  he  looked  .  .  .  Once  in  the  ivy- 
tod 
I  caught  an  owl,  and  hurt  its  wing.     'T  was 

so 
He  looked.      Oh,  quickly  tell  me  where  he 

lies  — 
Next  room  ?    or  down  the  passage?     Do 

you  know 
He  was  my  uncle,  and  was  kissing  me, 


MICHAEL   FIELD 


One,  two,  three,  on  my  head. 

Can.  Cease  !     From  these  lips, 

White,    childish     penitents,    how     awful 

sounds 

The  wild  avowal  of  their  treachery. 
Child,  it  was   I   who  struck  your  uncle's 

side, 

Who  falsely  kissed  him  ;  it  was  I  who  set 
Your  father  on  this  wickedness  ;  't  was  I 
Who  drove  your  frantic  innocence  to  work 
The  sin  of  my  conception.     Can  you  learn 
That  I  alone  am  guilty,  and  God's  wrath 
Will  visit  me  with  judgment  ? 

Child.  Come  along, 

And  take  me  where  he  is.     How  can  I  go  ? 
I  do  not  know  the  path  or  time  of  day. 
The   leaves   are   fading.      Can   the   blood 

flow  long 

Before  it  kills  ?  I  saw  it  spirt  and  jump  ; 
I  could  not  see  it  now.  I  ran  and  ran  .  .  . 
Perchance  I  stayed  too  long  about  the  fields. 
'T  is  dark  ;  no  trees  and  hedges.  He  is  gone, 
And  I  am  damned  forever  ;  the  fresh  herbs 
Could  once  have  saved  me. 

Can.  He  is  chill  and  fainting  ; 

Give  me  these  hands. 

Child.     I  am  not  much  afraid. 
Before  I  struck  at  him  my  skin  was  hot  ; 
Now  dew  is  falling  on  me  ;  it  is  cool. 
Let  me  lie  in  your  arms  where  I  can  look 
Up  at  the  sky.    There  's  some  one  .  .  .  and 

he  grows 

So  kindly.  Oh,  he  smiles  down  all  the  way, 
Quite  golden  in  my  eyes. 

Can.  He  sees  the  moon. 

How  pale  and  cold  he  's  growing  !     All  the 

flowers 
Are   slipping   down.      I   cannot  bear  his 

weight. 

'T  is  condemnation.     There  is  just  a  spot 
Here  on  his  garment,  one  bright  drop  of 

blood, 

Sprinkling  his  spirit  ;  he  is  saved  ;  on  him 
It  is  the  very  mark  of  Christ  ;  on  me 
The  blot  that  makes  illegible  my  name 
I'  the  book  of  life. 

Child.  If  I  should  fall  asleep, 

It  will  not  matter,  for  I  could  not  see 
The  healing  plants  by  night ;  besides,  my 

eyes 

Will  open  wide  at  morning.  I  must  hold 
The  blessed  thistle  in  my  hand,  and  pray  ; 
And  God  may  so  forgive  me.  Miserere ! 

Can.     The  child  is  dyiug  on  my  breast. 
He  closes 


His  frightened  eyes  ;  the  notes  are  on  his 

lips, 
His  arm  still  round  my  shoulder. 

Sharply  flows 
The  Thames  now  he  is  dead  ;  the  rush,  the 

hum, 

Are  like  a  conscience  haunting  me  without. 
I  cannot  bear  it.     I  will  fling  him  forth 
To  the  engulfing  river,  and  forget  him. 
Rank,  pagan  impulse  !     I  would  learn  the 

prayer, 
Recall   the   gracious   song,  —  and   stormy 

sagas 
Come  hurtling  through  my  brain.     I  am  a 

stranger 

To  our  sweet  Saviour  Christ  ;  I  cannot  pray  ; 
I  love  the  slaughter  of  my  enemies, 
And  to  exact  full  vengeance.     Little  one, 
Thou  shalt  have  fair,  white  cere-cloth,  and 

a  circlet 

Of  purest  gold.     Now  that  I  look  on  thee, 
It  grows  soft  in  my  heart  as  when  they 

chanted 
Across  the  stream,  —  Canute  the  king  passed 

ty,— 
And  listened.     They  shall  sing  about  thy 

grave. 
[He  bows  himself  over  the  child  and  weeps."] 


THE   BURIAL   OF   ROBERT 
BROWNING 

UPON  St.  Michael's  Isle 
They  laid  him  for  awhile 
That  he  might  feel  the  Ocean's  full  em- 
brace, 

And  wedded  be 
To  that  wide  sea  — 

The  subject  and  the  passion  of  his  race. 
As  Thetis,  from  some  lovely  under- 
ground 

Springing,  she  girds  him  round 
With  lapping  sound 
And  silent  space  : 
Then,  on  more  honor  bent, 
She  sues  the  firmament, 
And  bids  the  hovering,  western  clouds  com- 
bine 

To  spread  their  sabled  amber  on  her  lus- 
trous brine. 

It  might  not  be 
He  should  lie  free 


520 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Forever  in  the  soft  light  of  the  sea, 

For  lo  !  one  came, 

Of  step  more  slow  than  fame, 

Stooped  over  him  —  we  heard  her  breathe 

his  name  — 

And,  as  the  light  drew  back, 
Bore  him  across  the  track 
Of  the  subservient  waves  that  dare  not 

foil 

That  veiled,  maternal  figure  of  its 
spoil. 

Ah  !  where  will  she  put  by 
Her  journeying  majesty  ? 
She  hath  left  the  lands  of  the  air  and  sun  ; 
She  will  take  no  rest  till  her  course  be  run. 
Follow  her  far,  follow  her  fast, 

Until  at  last, 

Within  a  narrow  transept  led, 
Lo !  she  unwraps  her  face  to  pall  her 
dead. 

'T  is  England  who  has  travelled  far, 

England  who  brings 

Fresh   splendor   to    her    galaxy   of 

Kings. 

We  kiss  her  feet,  her  hands, 
Where  eloquent  she  stands  ; 
Nor  dare  to  lead 

A  wailful  choir  about  the  poet  dumb 
Who  is  become 

Part  of  the  glory  that  her  sons  would  bleed 
To  save  from  scar  ; 
Yea,  hers  in  very  deed 
As  Runnymede, 
Or  Trafalgar. 


WIND   OF   SUMMER 

O  WIND,  thou  hast  thy  kingdom  in  the  trees, 

And  all  thy  royalties 
Sweep  through  the  land  to-day. 

It  is  mid  June, 
And  thou,  with  all  thine  instruments  in  tune, 

Thine  orchestra 

Of  heaving  fields,  and  heavy,  swinging  fir, 
Strikest  a  lay 
That  doth  rehearse 
Her  ancient  freedom  to  the  universe. 
All  other  sound  in  awe 

Repeals  its  law  ; 
The  bird  is  mute,  the  sea 
Sucks  up  its  waves,  from  rain 
The  burthened  clouds  refrain, 


To  listen  to  thee  in  thy  leafery, 

Thou  unconfined, 

Lavish,  large,  soothing,  refluent  summer* 
wind. 


THE   DANCERS 

I  DANCE  and  dance  !     Another  faun, 
A  black  one,  dances  on  the  lawn. 
He  moves  with  me,  and  when  I  lift 
My  heels  his  feet  directly  shift  : 
I  can't  outdance  him  though  I  try  ; 
He  dances  nimbler  than  I. 
I  toss  my  head,  and  so  does  he  ; 
What  tricks  he  dares  to  play  on  me  ! 
I  touch  the  ivy  in  my  hair  ; 
Ivy  he  has  and  finger  there. 
The  spiteful  thing  to  mock  me  so  ! 
I  will  outdance  him  !     Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 


LETTICE 

LITTLE  Lettice  is  dead,  they  say, 
The  brown,  sweet  child  who  rolled  in  the 
hay; 

Ah,  where  shall  we  find  her  ? 

For  the  neighbors  pass 

To  the  pretty  lass, 
In  a  linen  cere-cloth  to  wind  her. 

If  her  sister  were  set  to  search 

The  nettle-green  nook  beside  the  church, 

And  the  way  were  shown  her 

Through  the  coffin-gate 

To  her  dead  playmate, 
She  would  fly  too  frightened  to  own  her. 

Should  she  come  at  a  noonday  call, 
Ah,  stealthy,  stealthy,  with  no  footfall, 

And  no  laughing  chatter, 

To  her  mother  't  were  worse 

Than  a  barren  curse 
That  her  own  little  wench  should  pat  her. 

Little  Lettice  is  dead  and  gone  ! 

The  stream  by  her  garden  wanders  on 

Through  the  rushes  wider  ; 

She  fretted  to  know 

How  its  bright  drops  grow 
On  the  hills,  but  no  hand  would  guide  her. 

Little  Lettice  is  dead  and  lost ! 

Her  willow-tree  boughs  by  storm  are  tost  — 


MICHAEL   FIELD 


521 


Oh,  the  swimming  sallows  !  — 
Where  she  crouched  to  find 
The  nest  of  the  wind 
Like  a  water-fowl's  in  the  shallows. 

Little  Lettice  is  out  of  sight ! 

The  river-bed  and  the  breeze  are  bright : 

Ay  me,  were  it  sinning 

To  dream  that  she  knows 

Where  the  soft  wind  rose 
That  her  willow-branches  is  thinning  ? 

Little  Lettice  has  lost  her  name, 

Slipt  away  from  our  praise  and  our  blame  ; 

Let  not  love  pursue  her, 

But  conceive  her  free 

Where  the  bright  drops  be 
Oil  the  hills,  and  no  longer  rue  her  ! 


EARTH   TO   EARTH 

I  STOOD  to  hear  that  bold 
Sentence  of  grit  and  mould, 

Earth  to  earth  ;  they  thrust 

On  his  coffin  dust  ; 
Stones  struck  against  his  grave 
Oh,  the  old  days,  the  brave  ! 

Just  with  a  pebble's  fall, 
Grave-digger,  you  turn  all 

Bliss  to  bereaving  ; 

To  catch  the  cleaving 
Of  Atropa's  fine  shears 
Would  less  hurt  human  ears. 

Live  senses  that  death  dooms  ! 

For  friendship  in  dear  rooms, 
Slow-lighting  faces, 
Hand-clasps,  embraces, 

Ashes  on  ashes  grind  : 

Oh,  poor  lips  left  behind  ! 


AN   ^OLIAN    HARP 

DOST  thou  not  hear  ?     Amid  dun,  lonely 

hills 

Far  off  a  melancholy  music  shrills, 
As  for  a  joy  that  no  fruition  fills. 

Who  live  in  that  far  country  of  the  wind  ? 
The  unclaimed  hopes,  the  powers  but  half- 
divined, 
The  shy,  heroic  passions  of  mankind. 


And  all  are  young  in  those  reverberant 
bands  ; 

None  marshals  them,  no  mellow  voice  com- 
mands ; 

They  whirl  and  eddy  as  the  shifting  sands. 

There,  there  is  ruin,  and  no  ivy  clings  ; 
There    pass   the    mourners   for    untimely 

things, 
There  breaks  the  stricken  cry  of  crownless 

kings. 

But  ever  and  anon  there  spreads  a  boom 
Of    wonder   through   the    air,    arraigning 

doom 
With  ineffectual  plaint  as  from  a  tomb. 


IRIS 

THE  Iris  was  yellow,  the  moon  was  pale, 

In  the  air  it  was  stiller  than  snow, 
There  was  even  light  through  the  vale, 
But  a  vaporous  sheet 
Clung  about  my  feet, 
And  I  dared  no  further  go. 
I   had   passed  the  pond,  I  could   see   the 

stile, 

The  path  was  plain  for  more  than  a  mile, 
Yet  I  dared  no  further  go. 

The    iris-beds    shone   in   my   face,   when, 

whist  ! 

A  noiseless  music  began  to  blow, 
A  music  that  moved  through  the  mist, 
That  had  not  begun, 
Would  never  be  done,  — 
With  that  music  I  must  go  : 
And  I  found  myself  in   the  heart  of  the 

tune, 

Wheeling  around  to  the  whirr  of  the  moon, 
With  the  sheets  of  the  mist  below. 

In   my  bands  how  warm  were  the  little 

hands, 
Strange,   little    hands   that    I    did    not 

know  : 

I  did  not 'think  of  the  elvan  bands, 
Nor  of  anything 
In  that  whirling  ring  — 
Here  a  cock  began  to  crow  ! 
The  little  hands  dropped  that  had  clung  so 

tight, 

And  I  saw  again  by  the  pale  dawnlight 
The  iris-heads  in  a  row. 


522 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


FROM    "A  LOVE-TRILOGY" 

I  CHARGE  you,  O  winds  of  the  West,  O 
winds  with  the  wings  of  the  dove, 

That  ye  blow  o'er  the  brows  of  my  Love, 
breathing  low  that  I  sicken  for  love. 

I  charge  you,  O  dews  of  the  Dawn,  O  tears 

of  the  star  of  the  morn, 
That  ye  fall  at  the  feet  of  my  love  with  the 

sound  of  one  weeping  forlorn. 

I  charge  you,  O  birds  of  the  Air,  O  birds 

flying  home  to  your  nest, 
That  ye  sing  in  his  ears  of  the  joy  that 

forever  has  fled  from  my  breast. 

I  charge  you,  O  flowers  of  the  Earth,  O 
frailest  of  things,  and  most  fair, 

That  ye  droop  in  his  path  as  the  life  in  me 
shrivels  consumed  by  despair. 

0  Moon,  when  he  lifts  up  his  face,  when 

he  seeth  the  waning  of  thee, 
A  memory  of   her  who   lies  wan   on   the 
limits  of  life  let  it  be. 

Many  tears  cannot  quench,  nor  my  sighs 
extinguish,  the  flames  of  love's  fire, 

Which  lifteth  my  heart  like  a  wave,  and 
smites  it,  and  breaks  its  desire. 

1  rise  like  one  in  a  dream  when  I  see  the 

red  sun  flaring  low, 

That  drags  me  back  shuddering  from  sleep 
each  morning  to  life  with  its  woe. 

I  go  like  one  in  a  dream  ;  unbidden  my  feet 

know  the  way 
To  that  garden  where  love  stood  in  blossom 

with  the  red  and  white  hawthorn  of 

May. 

The  song  of  the  throstle  is  hushed,  and  the 
fountain  is  dry  to  its  core," 

The  moon  eometh  up  as  of  old  ;  she  seeks, 
but  she  finds  him  no  more. 

The  pale-faced,  pitiful  moon  shines  down 
on  the  grass  where  I  weep, 

My  face  to  the  earth,  and  my  breast  in  an 
anguish  ne'er  soothed  into  sleep. 


The  moon  returns,  and  the  spring,  birds 
warble,  trees  burst  into  leaf, 

But  love  once  gone,  goes  forever,  and  all 
that  endures  is  the  grief. 

THE    DEAD 

THE  dead  abide  with  us  !     Though  stark 

and  cold 
Earth  seems  to  grip  them,  they  are  with  us 

still : 
They  have  forged  our  chains  of  being  for 

good  or  ill  ; 
And  their  invisible  hands  these  hands  yet 

hold. 

Our  perishable  bodies  are  the  mould 
In  which  their  strong  imperishable  will  — 
Mortality's  deep  yearning  to  fulfil  — 
Hath  grown  incorporate  through  dim  time 

untold. 

Vibrations  infinite  of  life  in  death, 
Asa  star's  travelling  light  survives  its  star  ! 
So  may  we  hold  our  lives,  that  when  we  are 
The  fate  of  those  who  then  will  draw  this 

breath, 

They  shall  not  drag  us  to  their  judgment- 
bar, 
And  curse  the  heritage  which  we  bequeath. 


FROM    "LOVE    IN    EXILE" 


WHY  will  you  haunt  me  unawares, 

And  walk  into  my  sleep, 
Pacing  its  shadowy  thoroughfares, 
Where  long-dried  perfume  scents  the  airs, 

While  ghosts  of  sorrow  creep, 
Where  on  Hope's  ruined  altar-stairs, 

With  ineffectual  beams, 
The  Moon  of  Memory  coldly  glares 

Upon  the  land  of  dreams  ? 

My  yearning  eyes  were  fain  to  look 

Upon  your  hidden  face  ; 
Their  love,  alas  !  you  could  not  brook, 
But  in  your  own  you  mutely  took 

My  hand,  and  for  a  space 
You  wrung  it  till  I  throbbed  and  shook, 

And  woke  with  wildest  moan 
And  wet  face  channelled  like  a  brook 

With  your  tears  or  my  own. 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 


523 


We  me't  as  strangers  on  life's  lonely  way, 
And  yet  it  seemed  we  knew  each  other 

well  ; 
There  was  no  end  to- what  thou  hadst  to 

say, 
Or  to   the  thousand  things  I  found  to 

tell. 

My  heart,  long  silent,  at  thy  voice  that  day 
Chimed  in  my  breast   like   to  a   silver 
bell. 

How  much  we   spoke,  and  yet  still   left 

untold 

Some   secret  half    revealed  within  our 
eyes : 


Didst  thou  not  love  me  once  in  ages  old  ? 
Had  I  not  called  thee  with  importunate 

cries, 

And,  like  a  child  left  sobbing  in  the  cold, 
Listened  to  catch  from  far  thy  fond  re- 
plies ? 

We  met  as  strangers,  and  as  such  we  part ; 
Yet  all  my  life  seems  leaving  me  with 

thine  ; 

Ah,  to  be  clasped  once  only  heart  to  heart, 

If  only  once  to  feel  that  thou  wert  mine  ! 

These  lips  are  locked,  and  yet  I  know  thou 

art 

That  all  in  all  for  which  my  soul  did 
pine. 


Robert 


PIRATE    STORY 

THREE  of  us  afloat  in  the  meadow  by  the 

swing, 
Three  of  us  aboard  in  the  basket  on  the 

lea. 
Winds  are  in  the  air,  they  are  blowing  in 

the  spring, 

And  waves  are  on  the  meadow  like  the 
waves  there  are  at  sea. 

Where    shall   we   adventure,   to-day   that 

we  're  afloat, 
Wary  of  the  weather  and  steering  by  a 

star? 

Shall  it  be  to  Africa,  a-steering  of  the  boat, 
To   Providence,   or   Babylon,  or  off   to 
Malabar  ? 

Hi  !  but   here  's   a  squadron   a-rowing  on 

the  sea  — 
Cattle  on  the  meadow  a-charging  with  a 

roar  ! 
Quick,  and  we  '11  escape  them,  they  're  as 

mad  as  they  can  be, 

The  wicket  is  the  harbor  and  the  garden 
is  the  shore. 

FOREIGN   LANDS 

UP  into  the  cherry  tree 
Who  should  climb  but  little  me  ? 
I  held  the  trunk  with  both  my  hands 
And  looked  abroad  on  foreign  lauds. 


I  saw  the  next-door  garden  lie, 
Adorned  with  flowers,  before  my  eye, 
And  many  pleasant  faces  more 
That  I  had  never  seen  before. 

I  saw  the  dimpling  river  pass 
And  be  the  sky's  blue  looking-glass  ; 
The  dusty  roads  go  up  and  down 
With  people  tramping  in  to  town. 

If  I  could  find  a  higher  tree 
Farther  and  farther  I  should  see, 
To  where  the  grown-up  river  slips 
Into  the  sea  among  the  ships, 

To  where  the  roads  on  either  hand 
Lead  onward  into  fairy  land, 
Where  all  the  children  dine  at  five, 
And  all  the  playthings  come  alive. 

THE  LAND  OF  COUNTERPANE 

WHEN  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed, 
I  had  two  pillows  at  my  head, 
And  all  my  toys  beside  me  lay 
To  keep  me  happy  all  the  day. 

And  sometimes  for  an  hour  or  so 
I  watched  my  leaden  soldiers  go, 
With  different  uniforms  and  drills, 
Among  the  bed-clothes,  through  the  hills  } 

And  sometimes  sent  my  ships  in  fleets 
All  up  and  down  among  the  sheets  ; 


524 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Or  brought  my  trees  and  houses  out, 
And  planted  cities  all  about. 

I  was  the  giant  great  and  still 
That  sits  upon  the  pillow-hill, 
And  sees  before  him,  dale  and  plain, 
The  pleasant  land  of  counterpane. 

THE    LAND   OF   NOD 

FROM  breakfast  on  through  all  the  day 
At  home  among  my  friends  I  stay, 
But  every  night  I  go  abroad 
Afar  into  the  land  of  Nod. 

All  by  myself  I  have  to  go, 

With  none  to  tell  me  what  to  do  — 

All  alone  beside  the  streams 

And  up  the  mountain-sides  of  dreams. 

The  strangest  things  are  there  for  me, 
Both  things  to  eat  and  things  to  see, 
And  many  frightening  sights  abroad 
Till  morning  in  the  land  of  Nod. 

Try  as  I  like  to  find  the  way, 
I  never  can  get  back  by  day, 
Nor  can  remember  plain  and  clear 
The  curious  music  that  I  hear. 

IN  THE  SEASON 

IT  is  the  season  now  to  go 
About  the  country  high  and  low, 
Among  the  lilacs  hand  in  hand, 
And  two  by  two  in  fairy  land. 

The  brooding  boy,  the  sighing  maid, 
Wholly  fain  and  half  afraid, 
Now  meet  along  the  hazelled  brook 
To  pass  and  linger,  pause  and  look. 

A  year  ago,  and  blithely  paired, 

Their  rough-and-tumble  play  they  shared  ; 

They  kissed  and   quarrelled,  laughed  and 

cried, 
A  year  ago  at  Eastertide. 

With  bursting  heart,  with  fiery  face, 

She  strove  against  him  in  the  race  ; 

He  unabashed  her  garter  saw, 

That  now  would  touch  her  skirts  with  awe. 

Now  by  the  stile  ablaze  she  stops, 
And  his  demurer  eyes  he  drops  ; 


Now  they  exchange  averted  sighs 
Or  stand  and  marry  silent  eyes. 

And  he  to  her  a  hero  is 
And  sweeter  she  than  primroses  ; 
Their  common  silence  dearer  far 
Thau  nightingale  and  mavis  are. 

Now  when  they  sever  wedded  hands, 
Joy  trembles  in  their  bosom-strands, 
And  lovely  laughter  leaps  and  falls 
Upon  their  lips  in  madrigals. 

TO    N.  V.    DE  G.  S. 

THE  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and  tears, 
The  deeds  of  heroes  and  the  crimes  of 

kings 

Dispart  us  ;  and  the  river  of  events 
Has,  for  an  age  of  years,  to  east  and  west 
More  widely  borne  our  cradles.     Thou  to 

me 

Art  foreign,  as  when  seamen  at  the  dawn 
Descry  a  land  far  off  and  know  not  which. 
So  I  approach  uncertain  ;  so  I  cruise 
Round  thy  mysterious  islet,  and  behold 
Surf  and  great  mountains  and  loud  river- 
bars, 

And  from  the  shore  hear  inland  voices  call. 
Strange  is  the  seaman's  heart ;  he  hopes, 

he  fears  ; 
Draws  closer  and  sweeps  wider  from  that 

coast ; 

Last,  his  rent  sail  refits,  and  to  the  deep 
His  shattered  prow  uncomforted  puts  back. 
Yet  as  he  goes  he  ponders  at  the  helm 
Of  that  bright  island  ;  where  he  feared  to 

touch, 

His  spirit  readventures  ;  and  for  years, 
Where  by  his   wife   he    slumbers   safe   at 

home, 

Thoughts  of  that  land  revisit  him  ;  he  sees 
The  eternal  mountains  beckon,  and  awakes 
Yearning  for  that  far  home  that  might 

have  been. 

IN   THE   STATES 

WITH  half  a  heart  I  wander  here 

As  from  an  age  gone  by, 
A  brother  —  yet  though  young  in  years, 

An  elder  brother,  I. 

You  speak  another  tongue  than  mine, 
Though  both  were  English  born. 


ROBERT  LOUIS   STEVENSON 


525 


I  towards  the  night  of  time  decline, 
You  mount  into  the  morn. 

Youth  shall  grow  great  and  strong  and 
free, 

But  age  must  still  decay  : 
To-morrow  for  the  States  —  for  me, 

England  and  Yesterday. 

THE  SPAEWIFE 

OH,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 
says  I  — 

Why  chops  are  guid  to  brander  and  nane 
sae  guid  to  fry. 

An'  siller,  that 's  sae  braw  to  keep,  is 
brawer  still  to  gi'e. 

It 's  gey  an'  easy  spierin' t  says  the  beggar- 
wife  to  me. 

Oh,  I  wad  like  to  ken  — to  the  beggar- wife 
says  I  — 

Hoo  a'  things  come  to  be  whaur  we  find 
them  when  we  try, 

The  lasses  in  their  claes  an'  the  fishes  in 
the  sea. 

It 's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 
wife  to  me. 

Oh,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar- wife 
says  I  — 

Why  lads  are  a'  to  sell  an'  lasses  a'  to  buy  ; 

An'  naebody  for  dacency  but  barely  twa  or 
three. 

It 's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 
wife  to  me. 

Oh,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 
says  I  — 

Gin  death's  as  shiire  to  men  as  killin'  is  to 
kye, 

Why  God  has  filled  the  yearth  sae  fu'  o' 
tasty  things  to  pree. 

It 's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 
wife  to  me. 

Oh,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife 
says  I  — 

The  reason  o'  the  cause  an'  the  wherefore 
o'  the  why, 

Wi'  mony  anither  riddle  brings  the  tear 
into  my  e'e. 

It 's  gey  an'  easy  spierin',  says  the  beggar- 
wife  to  me. 


HEATHER  ALE  :  A  GALLOWAY 
LEGEND 

FROM  the  bonny  bells  of  heather 

They  brewed  a  drink  long-syne, 
Was  sweeter  far  than  honey, 

Was  stronger  far  than  wine. 
They  brewed  it  and  they  drank  it, 

And  lay  in  a  blessed  swound 
For  days  and  days  together 

In  their  dwellings  underground. 

There  rose  a  king  in  Scotland, 

A  fell  man  to  his  foes, 
He  smote  the  Picts  in  battle, 

He  hunted  them  like  roes. 
Over  miles  of  the  red  mountain 

He  hunted  as  they  fled, 
And  strewed  the  dwarfish  bodies 

Of  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

Summer  came  in  the  country, 

Red  was  the  heather  bell ; 
But  the  manner  of  the  brewing 

Was  none  alive  to  tell. 
In  graves  that  were  like  children's 

On  many  a  mountain  head, 
The  Brewsters  of  the  Heather 

Lay  numbered  with  the  dead. 

The  king  in  the  red  moorland 

Rode  on  a  summer's  day  ; 
And  the  bees  hummed,  and  the  curlews 

Cried  beside  the  way. 
The  king  rode,  and  was  angry  ; 

Black  was  his  brow  and  pale, 
To  rule  in  a  land  of  heather 

And  lack  the  Heather  Ale. 

It  fortuned  that  his  vassals, 

Riding  free  on  the  heath, 
Came  on  a  stone  that  was  fallen 

And  vermin  hid  beneath. 
Rudely  plucked  from  their  hiding, 

Never  a  word  they  spoke  : 
A  son  and  his  aged  father  — 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  folk. 

The  king  sat  high  on  his  charger, 
He  looked  on  the  little  men  ; 

And  the  dwarfish  and  swarthy  couple 
Looked  at  the  king  again. 

Down  by  the  shore  he  had  them  ; 
And  there  on  the  giddy  brink  — 


526 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


"  I  will  give  you  life,  ye  vermin, 
For  the  secret  of  the  drink." 

There  stood  the  son  and  father 

And  they  looked  high  and  low  ; 
The  heather  was  red  around  them, 

The  sea  rumbled  below. 
And  up  and  spoke  the  father, 

Shrill  was  his  voice  to  hear  i 
"  I  have  a  word  in  private, 

A  word  for  the  royal  ear. 

"  Life  is  dear  to  the  aged, 

And  honor  a  little  thing ; 
I  would  gladly  sell  the  secret," 

Quoth  the  Pict  to  the  King. 
His  voice  was  small  as  a  sparrow's^ 

And  shrill  and  wonderful  clear  : 
"  I  would  gladly  sell  my  secret, 

Only  my  son  I  fear. 

"  For  life  is  a  little  matter, 

And  death  is  nought  to  the  young  ; 
And  I  dare  not  sell  my  honor 

Under  the  eye  of  my  son. 
Take  him,  O  king,  and  bind  him, 

And  cast  him  far  in  the  deep  ; 
And  it 's  I  will  tell  the  secret 

That  I  have  sworn  to  keep. " 

They  took  the  son  and  bound  him, 

Neck  and  heels  in  a  thong, 
And  a  lad  took  him  and  swung  him, 

And  flung  him  far  and  strong, 
And  the  sea  swallowed  his  body, 

Like  that  of  a  child  of  ten  ;  — 
And  there  on  the  cliff  stood  the  father, 

Last  of  the  dwarfish  men. 

"  True  was  the  word  I  told  you  : 

Only  my  son  I  feared  ; 
For  I  doubt  the  sapling  courage 

That  goes  without  the  beard. 


But  now  in  vain  is  the  torture, 

Fire  shall  never  avail  : 
Here  dies  in  my  bosom 

The  secret  of  Heather  Ale." 

THE   WHAUPS 

TO   S.    R.    C. 

"  BLOWS  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and 

the  rain  are  flying  — 
Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and 

now, 
Where  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the 

whaups  are  crying, 
My  heart  remembers  how  ! 

"Gray,  recumbent  tombs   of   the  dead  in 

desert  places, 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant,  red-wine 

moor, 
Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  homes  of  the  silent 

vanished  races 
And  winds  austere  and  pure  ! 

"  Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in 

dying, 

Hills  of  home  !  and  I  hear  again  the  call  — 
Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the 

pee-wees  crying, 
And  hear  no  more  at  all." 

REQUIEM 

UNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie. 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 


45lce£on  JBjjitc 


A  BALLADE  OF  PLAYING  CARDS 

To  soothe  a  mad  King's  fevered  brain 
(So    runs    the    legend),    cards   were 
made, 

When  Gringonneur  for  Charles  insane 
"  Diversely  colored  "  heart  and  spade, 


Diamond  and  club,  the  painted  jade, 
The  light-heeled  Jack,  and  beckoning 

Called,  to  their  royal  cousin's  aid, 
Puppets  of  knave,  and  queen,  and  king. 

Grim  fancy  !  that  the  playful  train, 
The  quaint,  grimacing  cavalcade, 


52? 


Should  wreck  such  ills  where  they  obtain 
The  victims  to  their  sorry  trade, 
The  player  cozened  by  the  played  ; 

Pasteboards  supreme  ;  to  this  they  bring 
Both  gallant  buck  and  roystering  blade, 

Puppets  of  knave,  and  queen,  and  king. 

From  reckless  play,  what  noble  gain  ? 

One  friend  hard  hit,  the  rest  afraid 
To  show  their  pleasure  at  his  pain, 

Such  sympathy  might  well  persuade 

The  cards  in  garish  heaps  displayed 
To  join,  with  impish  revelling, 

And  jeer  as  all  his  fortunes  fade  — 
Puppets  of  knave,  and  queen,  and  king. 

L'ENVOI 

Prince  !  after  all,  they  are  the  shade, 
The  type  of  every  earthly  thing, 

And  we,  through  all  life's  masquerade, 
Puppets  of  knave,  and  queen,  and  king. 


SUFFICIENCY 

A  LITTLE  love,  of  Heaven  a  little  share, 
And  then  we  go  —  what  matters  it  ?  since 

where, 

Or  when,  or  how,  none   may  aforetime 
know. 


Nor  if  Death  couieth  soon,  or  lingering 

slow, 
Send  on  ahead  his  herald  of  Despair. 

On  this  gray  life,  Love  lights  with  golden 

glow; 
Refracted   from    The    Source,   his   bright 

wings  throw 

Its  glory  round  us,   should   Fate  grant 
our  prayer 

—  A  little  love  ! 

A  little  ;  't  is  as  much  as  we  may  bears 
For  Love  is  compassed  with  such  magic  air 
Who  breathes  it  fully  dies  ;  and,  knowing 

so, 

The  Gods  all  wisely  but  a  taste  bestow 
For  little  lives,  —  a  little  while  they  spare 
A  little  love. 

A  PRIMROSE    DAME 

SHE  has  a  primrose  at  her  breast, 
I  almost  wish  I  were  a  Tory. 

I  like  the  Radicals  the  best  ; 

She  has  a  primrose  at  her  breast  ; 

Now  is  it  chance  she  so  is  drest, 
Or  must  I  tell  a  story  ? 

She  has  a  primrose  at  her  breast, 
I  almost  wish  I  were  a  Tory. 


TAKE  as  gold  this  old  tradition 
Of  the  royal-rendered  wage, 

Guerdon  of  love's  mad  ambition 
In  the  true  heart  of  a  page. 

He,  his  passion  vainly  hiding, 

Worn  and  pale  with  hopeless  pain, 

Through  the  summer  woods  was  riding 
Close  beside  his  mistress'  rein. 

"  Why  so  sad,  my  page  ?  "  and  turning, 
Gazed  she  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"  T  is  thy  thought  my  bosom  burning 
With  a  flame  that  never  dies." 

Flushed  she  then,  but  answered,  "  Carest 
Thou  to  feed  the  flame  I  bring  ? 


Look  me  full,  and  if  thou  darest, 
Kiss  the  daughter  of  the  king." 

Stark  he  stood,  all  wonders  mingling, 
Then  from  heart  to  finger-tips 

Rushed  the  heated  life-blood  tingling 
As  he  seized  upon  her  lips. 

Crushing  newborn  awe  with  laughter, 

Said  she,  "  Thus  must  end  thy  pain  ; 
See  thou  never  more  hereafter 

Lookest  for  like  grace  again." 

< 

Spake  he  glad  :  "  Each  leaf  that  glit- 
ters 

In  the  sun  thy  gift  hath  seen  ; 
Every  bird  that  sings  and  twitters 

Knoweth  where  my  lips  have  been. 


5*8 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


"  And  the  winds  from  dawn  to  vesper, 
Blow  they  north  or  blow  they  south, 

Softly  in  my  ear  shall  whisper, 

'  Thou  hast  kissed  Schone  Rothraut's 
mouth.' 

"  Every  floweret  of  the  meadow, 

Every  bird  upon  the  tree, 
In  life's  sunshine  or  its  shadow, 

Shall  bring  back  my  joy  to  me." 

A   PARABLE   OF   THE   SPIRIT 

I  CAME  in  light  that  I  might  behold 
The  shadow  which  shut  me  apart  of  old. 
Lo,  it  was  lying  robed  in  white, 
With  the  still  palms  crossed  o'er  a  lily, 

bright 

With  salt  rain  of  tears  ;  and  everywhere 
Around  lay  blossoms  that  filled  the  air 
With  perfume,  snow  of  flowers  that  hid 
The  snow  of  the  silken  coverlid 
With  myrtle  and  orange  bloom  and  store 
Of  jasmine  stars,  and  a  wreath  it  wore 
Of  stephanotis.     Still  it  lay, 
For  its  time  of  travail  had  passed  away. 
"  Of  old  it  was  never  so  fair  as  this," 
I  said,  as  I  bent  me  down  to  kiss 
.The  cast  swathing  robe.  "  It  is  well  that  so 
I  see  it  before  I  turn  to  go  — 
Turn  to  depart  that  I  may  bless 
The  love  that  has  shown  such  tenderness." 

So  I  passed  to  my  mother's  side, 

Where  she  lay  sleepless  and  weary-eyed  ; 

Glided  within,  that  I  might  see 

The   chamber  her  love  had   reserved  for 

me. 

It  was  wide  and  warm,  and  furnished  forth 
With  the  best  she  had,  with  gifts  of  worth, 
Anxious  watchings  and  tears  and  prayers 
And  ministrations  of  many  years. 
I  bent  me  down  o'er  her  wrinkled  brow 
And  kissed  it  smooth,  as  I  whispered  low 
Comfort  and  hope  for  her  daughter  dear, 
Till  my   whisper  drew   forth  the   healing 

tear. 

Last,  I  kissed  her  to  slumber  deep, 
Kissed  her  to  quiet  rest  and  sleep.* 

I  passed  to  my  sister's  heart,  and  there 

I  heard  sweet  notes  of  her  soaring  prayer  ; 

And,   joining    therewith,   found     the   fair 

white  shrine 
That  her  love  had  set  apart  as  mine. 


On  its  alabaster  altar  stood 

A  vessel  with  sacrificial  blood. 

Incense  of  sweet  unselfishness 

Rose  ever,  a  pillar  of  light  to  bless 

That  fair  pure  place  with  its  flower-sweet 

fume. 
Dimmed  was  that  shrine  by  no  cloud  of 

gloom, 
But   bright   shone  that   pillar  which  rose 

above 
On  her  earthly  jewels   with  its  lambent 

love. 

So  I  knew  that  any  gift  of  mine 
Was  naught  by  her  treasure  of  love  divine, 
Flowing  freely  down  ;  but  a  flower  I  lent 
That  would  bloom  in  her  bosom  with  sweet 

content, 
'T  was  forget-me-not.     "  Though  poor,"  I 

said, 

"  Mid  her  blossoms  of  living  love,  the  dead 
Would  yet  be  loved,  and  I  will  that  she 
Keep  this,  and  render  it  back  to  me." 
I  knew  how  my  blossom  would  live  and 

grow, 
As  I  kissed  it  once  ere  I  turned  to  go  ; 

Turned  to  go  to  my  cousin  Kate  — 
She  who  was  rival  to  me  of  late, 
Jealous,  unhappy,  but  in  the  end 
Nursed  me  and  tended  me  like  a  friend. 
I  searched  her  heart,  and  soon  I  found 
A  plot  of  mine  in  her  garden  ground  ; 
Flowers  were  there  which  had  ripened  seed, 
But  among  them  many  a  yellow  weed. 
Still,  I  saw  with  a  gladdened  eye 
The  weeds  were  pining  and  like  to  die, 
Whilst   heartsease   throve,  and   sprigs   of 

rue 

Watered  well  with  remorseful  dew. 
So  I  bent  down  and  rooted  out 
Nettles  of  envy,  and  round  about 
Cleared  the  ground  that  the  flowers  might 

live, 

Live  and  blossom  and  grow  and  thrive. 
Lastly,  I  drew  with  cords  of  love 
A  thistle  of  pride  naught  else  might  move, 
Pressed  her  forehead  and  swiftly  passed  — 
For  I  kept  my  best  gifts  to  the  last  — 
Treasures  of  comfort  and  hope  to  cheer 
The  heart  which  my  own  had  held  most 

dear. 

I  dreamed  of  the  bliss  that  I  should  fee! 
When   that    opened    heart   should   to   me 
reveal 


ERIC   MACKAY 


529 


Its  fulness,  before  but  dimly  seen, 
As  I  lifted  its  veils  and  entered  in  — 
Entered,  and  saw  with  mute  amaze 
How  squalid  and  narrow  was  the  place. 
Still,  I  fancied,  perchance  for  me 
The  best  of  that  which  is  here  may  be. 
Searching  in  dusk,  I  forced  my  way 
To  the   secret   place    where   my  chamber 

lay, 

Choked  with  the  sordid  piles  o'erthrown 
Of  a  miser's  dust  which  had  been  my  own, 
Till  but  little  space  for  me  remained, 
All  being  filthy  and  weather-stained  ; 
Whilst  evil  fungi,  spawn  of  lust, 
Pushed    through     the     rotten    floor,    and 

thrust 

Unsightly  growths  in  that  evil  space, 
And  vanity  pressed  in  the  crowded  space 
Till  room  was  scanty  for  me  to  tread. 
I  gazed  shadowed  a  moment  before  I  fled, 


For  no  gift  of  mine  of  love  or  care 
Might  live  in  that  pestilential  air  ; 
Still,  for  the  love  of  dreams  bygone, 
I  could  not  leave  him  quite  alone, 
So  I  planted  cypress  to  warn  of  death. 
It  might  live,  and  its  keen  balsamic  breath 
Would  wither  these  fungi  one  by  one, 
Giving  entrance,  perchance,  to  some  ray  of 
sun. 

Then  I  departed,  earth's  lesson  o'er. 
Never  henceforth  shall  I  enter  more  ; 
And   the    thought   was    mine    of    former 

dread 

And  former  longings,  and  so  I  said, 
"  Blind  I  was  when  my  dearest  wish 
Was  ever  to  dwell  in  a  home  like  this." 
Knew,  as  I  went  forth  to  my  rest, 
My  prayer  was  a  child's,  and  God  knew 

best. 


<£ric 


THE   WAKING   OF   THE    LARK 

O  BONNIE  bird,  that  in  the  brake,  exultant, 

dost  prepare  thee, 
As  poets  do  whose  thoughts  are  true,  for 

wings  that  will  upbear  thee  — 

Oh  !  tell  me,  tell  me,  bonnie  bird, 

Canst  thou  not  pipe  of  hope  deferred  ? 

Or  canst  thou  sing  of  naught  but  Spring 

among  the  golden  meadows  ? 

Methinks  a  bard  (and  thou  art  one)  should 

suit  his  song  to  sorrow, 
And  tell  of  pain,  as  well  as  gain,  that  waits 

us  on  the  morrow  ; 
But  thou  art  not  a  prophet,  thou, 
If  naught  but  joy  can  touch  thee  now  ; 
If,  in  thy  heart,  thou   hast  no  vow  that 
speaks  of  Nature's  anguish. 

Oh  !    I  have  held  my  sorrows  dear,  and 

felt,  though  poor  and  slighted, 
The  songs  we  love  are  those  we  hear  when 

love  is  unrequited  ; 
But  thou  art  still  the  slave  of  dawn, 
And  canst  not  sing  till  night  be  gone, 
Till  o'er  the  pathway  of  the  fawn  the  sun- 
beams shine  and  quiver. 


Thou  art  the  minion  of  the  sun  that  rises 

in  his  splendor, 
And  canst  not  spare  for  Dian  fair  the  songs 

that  should  attend  her. 
The  moon,  so  sad  and  silver-pale, 
Is  mistress  of  the  nightingale  ; 
And   thou  wilt   sing  on   hill   and   dale  no 
ditties  in  the  darkness. 

For  Queen  and  King  thou  wilt  not  spare 

one  note  of  thine  outpouring  ; 
And  thou  'rt  as  free  as  breezes  be  on  Na- 
ture's velvet  flooring. 
The  daisy,  with  its  hood  undone, 
The  grass,  the  sunlight,  and  the  sun  — 
These  are  the  joys,  thou  holy  one,  that  pay 
thee  for  thy  singing. 

Oh,  hush  !  Oh,  hush  !  how  wild  a  gush  of 

rapture  in  the  distance  — 
A  roll  of  rhymes,  a  toll  of  chimes^  a  cry  for 

love's  assistance  ; 

A  sound  that  wells  from  happy  throats, 
A  flood  of  song  where  beauty  floats, 
And  where  our  thoughts,  like  golden  boats, 
do  seem  to  cross  a  river. 


53° 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


This  is  the  advent  of  the  lark  —  the  priest 

in  gray  apparel  — 
Who  doth  prepare  to  trill  in  air  his  sinless 

summer  carol  ; 
This  is  the  prelude  to  the  lay 
The  birds  did  sing  in  Caesar's  day, 
And  will  again,  for  aye  and  aye,  in  praise 
of  God's  creation. 

Q  dainty  thing,  on  wonder's  wing,  by  life 

and  love  elated, 
Oh  !  sing  aloud  from  cloud  to  cloud,  till 

day  be  consecrated  ; 
Till  from  the  gateways  of  the  morn, 
The  sun,  with  all  his  light  unshorn, 
His  robes  of  darkness  round  him  torn,  doth 
scale  the  lofty  heavens  ! 


O  THOU  to  whom,  athwart  the  perished  days 
And  parted  nights,  long  sped,  we  lift  our 

gaze, 
Behold  !    I    greet    thee    with    a    modern 

rhyme, 

Love-lit  and  reverent  as  befits  the  time, 
To  solemnize  the  feast-day  of  thy  son. 

And   who   was   he  who  flourished   in  the 

smiles 
Of  thy  fair  face  ?     'T  was  Shakespeare  of 

the  Isles, 
Shakespeare  of  England,  whom  the  world 

has  known 

As  thine,  and  ours,  and  Glory's,  in  the  zone 
Of  all  the  seas   and   all   the   lands   of 

earth. 

He  was  unfamous  when  he  came  to  thee, 
But  sound,  and  sweet,  and  good  for  eyes  to 

see, 
And   born   at  Stratford,  on   St.    George's 

Day, 
A   week   before   the   wondrous   month   of 

May  ; 
And  God  therein  was  gracious  to  us  all. 

He  loved  thee,  lady  !   and  he   loved  the 
world  ; 

And,  like  a  flag,  his  fealty  was  unfurled  ; 

And  kings  who  flourished  ere  thy  son  was 
born 

Shall  live  through  him,  from  morn  to  fur- 
thest morn, 
In  all  the  far-off  cycles  yet  to  come. 


He  gave  us  Falstaff,  and  a  hundred  quips, 
A  hundred  mottoes  from  immortal  lips  ; 
And,  year  by  year,  we  smile  to  keep  away 
The  generous  tears  that  mind  us    of   the 

sway 
Of  his  great    singing,   and    the   pomp 

thereof. 

His  was  the  nectar  of  the  gods  of  Greece, 
The   lute   of    Orpheus,   and    the    Golden 

Fleece 

Of  grand  endeavor  ;  and  the  thunder-roll 
Of  words  majestic,  which,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Have  borne  the  tidings  of  our  English 

tongue. 

He   gave   us  Hamlet ;  and  he  taught  us 
more 

Than  schools  have  taught  us  ;  and  his  fairy- 
lore 

Was  fraught  with  science  ;  and  be  called 
from  death 

Verona's  lovers,  with  the  burning  breath 
Of  their  great  passion  that  has  filled  the 
spheres. 

He  made  us  know  Cordelia,  and  the  man 
Who  murdered  sleep,  and  baleful  Caliban  • 
And,  one  by  one,  athwart  the  gloom  ap- 
peared 
Maidens   and  men  and   myths   who  were 

revered 
In  olden  days,  before  the  earth  was  sad. 

Ay  !  this  is  true.     It  was  ordaine'd  so  ; 
He  was  thine  own,  three  hundred  years  ago  ; 
But  ours  to-day  ;   and  ours   till  earth  be 

red 
With  doom-day  splendor  for  the  quick  and 

dead, 
And  days  and  nights  be  scattered  like  the 

leaves. 

It  was  for  this  he  lived,  for  this  he  died  : 
To  raise  to  Heaven  the   face  that  never 

lied, 
To  lean  to  earth  the  lips  that  should  be^ 

come 
Fraught  with  conviction  when  the  mouth 

was  dumb, 
And   all  the   firm,  fine  body  turned  to 

clay. 

He  lived  to  seal,  and  sanctify,  the  lives 
Of  perished  maids,  and  uncreated  wives, 


ERIC   MACKAY 


And  gave   them  each  a  space  wheuein  to 

dwell  ; 
And  for  his  mother's  sake  he  loved  them 

well 
And  made   them  types   undying  of  all 

truth. 

0  fair  and  fond  young  mother  of  the  boy 
Who  wrought  all  this  —  O  Mary  !  —  in  this 

thy  joy 
Didst  thou  perceive,  when,  fitful  from  his 

rest, 

He  turned  to  thee,  that  his  would  be  the  best 
Of  all  men's  chanting  since  the  world 

began  ? 

Didst  thou,  O  Mary  !  with  the  eye  of  trust 
Perceive,  prophetic  through  the  dark  and 

dust 

Of  things  terrene,  the  glory  of  thy  son, 
And  all  the  pride  therein  that  should  be  won 
By    toilsome    men,  content    to    be    his 

slaves  ? 

Didst  thou,  good  mother  !  in  the   tender 

ways 

That  women  find  to  fill  the  fleeting  days, 
Behold  afar  the  Giant  who  should  rise 
With  foot  on  earth,  and   forehead   in  the 

skies, 
To  write  his  name  and  thine  among  the 

stars  ? 

1  love  to  think  it ;  and  in  dreams  at  night 
I  see  thee  stand,  erect,  and  all  in  white, 
With   hands  out-yearning  to  that  mighty 

form, 

As  if  to  draw  him  back  from  out  the  storm  — 
A  child  again,  and  thine  to  nurse  withal. 

I  see  thee,  pale  and  pure,  with  flowing  hair, 
And  big,  bright  eyes  —  far-searching  in  the 

air 
For   thy  sweet   babe  —  and,  in   a  trice   of 

time, 

I  see  the  boy  advance  to  thee,  and  climb, 
And   call   thee    "  Mother  ! "   in  ecstatic 

tones. 

Yet  if  my  thought  be  vain  —  if,  by  a  touch 
Of  this  weak  hand,  I  vex  thee  overmuch  — 
Forbear  the  blame,  sweet  Spirit !  and  endow 
My  heart  with  fervor  while  to  thee  I  bow 
Athwart    the   threshold    of   my   fading 
dream. 


For  —  though  so  seeming-bold  in  this  my 

song  — 

I  turn  to  thee  with  reverence,  in  the  throng 
Of    words    and     thoughts,   as     shepherds 

scanned  afar 

The  famed  effulgence  of  that  eastern  star 
Which  ushered  in  the  Crowned  One  of 

the  heavens. 

In  dreams  of  rapture   I  have  seen  thee 

pass 

Along  the  banks  of  Avon,  by  the  grass, 
As  fair  as  that  fair  Juliet  whom  thy  son 
Endowed  with  life,  but  with  the  look  of 

one 
Who  knows  the  nearest  way  to  some  new 

grave. 

And  often,  too,  I  've  seen  thee  in  the  flush 
Of  thy   full   beauty,    while   the   mother's 

"  Hush  ! " 

Hung  on  thy  lip,  and  all  thy  tangled  hair 
Re-clothed  a  bosom  that  in  part  was  bare 
Because  a  tiny  hand  had  toyed  therewith  ! 

Oh  !  by  the  June-tide  splendor  of  thy  face 

When,  eight  weeks  old,  the  child  in  thine 
embrace 

Did  leap   and   laugh  —  O  Mary  !   by  the 
same, 

I  bow  to  thee,  subservient  to  thy  fame, 
And  call  thee  England's  Pride  forever- 
more  ! 


ECSTASY 

I  CANNOT  sing  to  thee  as  I  would  sing 
If  I  were  quickened  like  the  holy  lark, 
With  fire  from  Heaven  and  sunlight  on  his 

wing, 
Who  wakes  the  world  with  witcheries  of 

the  dark 

Renewed  in  rapture  in  the  reddening  air. 
A  thing  of  splendor  do  I  deem  him  then, 
A  feathered  frenzy  with  an  angel's  throat, 
A  something  sweet  that  somewhere  seems 

to  float 

'Twixt  earth  and  sky,  to  be  a  sign  to  men. 
He  fills  me  with  such  wonder  and  despair  ! 
I  long  to  kiss  thy  locks,  so  golden  bright, 
As  he  doth  kiss  the  tresses  of  the  sun. 
Oh  !  bid  me  sing  to  thee,  my  chosen  one, 
And    do   thou   teach   me,    Love,    to    sing 

aright ! 


532 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


IN    TUSCANY 

DOST  them  remember,  friend  of  vanished 

days, 

How,  ill  the  golden  land  of  love  and  song, 
We  met  in  April  in  the  crowded  ways 
Of  that  fair  city  where  the  soul  is  strong, 
Ay !    strong    as    fate,    for    good    or    evil 

praise  ? 
And  how  the  lord  whom  all  the   world 

obeys, 


The  Iqrd  of  light  to  whom  the  stars  belong, 
Illumed  the  track  that  led  thee  through 

the  throng  ? 

Dost  thou  remember,  in  the  wooded  dale, 
Beyond  the  town  of  Dante  the  Diviues 
How  all  the  air  was  flooded  as  with  wine  ? 
And  how  the  lark,  to  drown  the  nightingale, 
Pealed  out  sweet  notes  ?    I  live  to  tell  the 

tale. 
But  thou  ?      Oblivion  signs   thee  with  & 

sign  ! 


.  t@ptoiHe 


AN  ENGLISH  GIRL 

SPEAK,  quiet  lips,  and  utter  forth  my  fate  ; 

Before  thy  beauty  I  bow  down,  I  kneel, 
Girl,  and  to  thee  my  life  I  dedicate, 

And  seal  the  past  up  with  a  dateless  seal. 

What  delicate  hours  and  arasons  without 

storm 

Have  nursed  thee,  and  what  happy  Eng- 
lish dale  ? 

For  tenderer  is  thy  light  and  gracile  form 
Than  any  snowy  wind-flower  of  the  vale. 

0  wild-flower,  though  the  bee  that  drinks 

thy  wine 

Must  soar  past  crags  that  front  the  leap- 
ing sea, 

1  climb  to  thee  ;  thy  beauty  shall  be  mine  ; 
Or  let  the  cold  green  wave  go  over  me. 


DOVER  CLIFF 

LAST  April,  when  the  winds  had  lost  their 
chill, 

I  lay  down  dreamily  upon  the  verge 

Of  Shakespeare's  Cliff,  where  sea  and  sea- 
wind  scourge 

The  sternal  barrier  that  withstands  them 
still. 


I  heard  the  billows  break  beneath  and  fill 
The  wide  air  with  the  thunder  of  the  surge  ; 
And  near  my  cheek,  half  fearful  to  emerge, 
A  violet  grew  upon  the  grassy  hill. 
There  while  I  lay,  Poet,  I  dreamed  of  thee. 
Thy  very  voice,  whose  matchless  music  yet 
O'ermasters  all  the  world's,  surrounded  me, 
Singing,  and  in  the  sound  of  it  there  met 
With  all  the  might  and  passion  of  the  sea 
The  utter  sweetness  of  the  violet. 


IN  A   SEPTEMBER  NIGHT 

THERE  the  moon  leans  out  and  blesses 
All  the  dreamy  hills  below  : 

Here  the  willows  wash  their  tresses 
Where  the  water-lilies  blow 
In  the  stream  that  glideth  slow. 

High  in  heaven,  in  serried  ranges, 

Cloud-wreaths  float  through  pallid  light, 

Like  a  flock  of  swans  that  changes 
In  the  middle  Autumn  night 
North  for  South  in  ordered  flight. 

What  know  ye,  who  hover  yonder, 
More  than  I,  of  that  veiled  good 

Whither  all  things  tend,  I  wonder, 
That  ye  follow  the  wind's  mood 
In  such  patient  quietude  ? 


FRANCIS   BOURDILLON  —  HERBERT   CLARKE 


533 


s  IDiHiam 


EURYDICE 

HE  came  to  call  me  back  from  death 

To  the  bright  world  above. 
I  hear  him  yet  with  trembling  breath 

Low  calling,  "  O  sweet  love  ! 
Come  back  !     The  earth  is  just  as  fair  ; 
The  flowers,  the  open  skies  are  there  ; 

Come  back  to  life  and  love  !  " 

Oh  !  all  my  heart  went  out  to  him, 

And  the  sweet  air  above. 
With  happy  tears  my  eyes  were  dim  ; 

I  called  him,  "  O  sweet  love  ! 
I  come,  for  thou  art  all  to  me. 
Go  forth,  and  I  will  follow  thee, 

Right  back  to  life  and  love  ! " 

I  followed  through  the  cavern  black  ; 

I  saw  the  blue  above. 
Some  terror  turned  me  to  look  back  : 

I  heard  him  wail,  "  O  love  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  !      What  hast  thou 

done ! " 
And  then  I  saw  no  more  the  sun, 

And  lost  were  life  and  love. 

A   VIOLINIST 

THE  lark  above  our  heads  doth  know 
A  heaven  we  see  not  here  below  ; 
She  sees  it,  and  for  joy  she  sings  ; 
Then  falls  with  ineffectual  wings. 

Ah,  soaring  soul !  faint  not  nor  tire  ! 
Each  heaven  attained  reveals  a  higher. 
Thy  thought  is  of  thy  failure  ;  we 
List  raptured,  and  thank  God  for  thee. 


OLD  AND  YOUNG 


LONG  ago,  on  a  bright  spring  day, 
I  passed  a  little  child  at  play  ; 
And  as  I  passed,  in  childish  glee 
She  called  to  me,  "  Come  and  play  with 
me!" 

But  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  far-off  height 
I  was  fain  to  climb  before  the  night  ; 
So,  half-impatient,  I  answered,  "  Nay  ! 
I  am  too  old,  too  old  to  play.  " 

Long,  long  after,  in  Autumn  time  — 
My  limbs  were  grown  too  old  to  climb  — 
I  passed  a  child  on  a  pleasant  lea, 
And  I  called  to  her,  "  Come  and  play  with 
me!" 

But  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  fairy-book  ; 
And  scarce  she  lifted  a  wondering  look, 
As    with    childish    scorn    she    answered, 

"  Nay  ! 
I  am  too  old,  too  old  to  play  !  " 


THE  NIGHT  HAS  A  THOUSAND 
EYES 

THE  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 


l)crbcrt  <£&toin  Clarfce 


IN  THE  WOOD 

THROUGH   laughing  leaves    the    sunlight 
comes, 

Turning  the  green  to  gold  ; 
The  bee  about  the  heather  hums, 

And  the  morning  air  is  cold 


Here  on  the  breezy  woodland  side, 
Where  we  two  ride. 

Through  laughing  leaves  on  golden  hair 

The  sunlight  glances  down, 
And  makes  a  halo  round  her  there, 

And  crowns  her  with  a  crown 


534 


RECENT  POETS   OF   GREAT  BRITAIN 


Queen  of  the  sunrise  and  the  sun, 
As  we  ride  on. 

The  wanton  wind  has  kissed  her  face,  — 

His  lips  have  left  a  rose,  — 
He  found  her  cheek  so  sweet  a  place 

For  kisses,  I  suppose, 
He  thought  he  'd  leave  a  sign,  that  so 
Others  might  know. 

The  path  grows  narrower  as  we  ride, 
The  green  boughs  close  above, 

And  overhead,  and  either  side, 
The  wild  birds  sing  of  Love  : 

But  ah,  she  is  not  listening 
To  what  they  sing  ! 

Till  I  take  up  the  wild-birds'  song, 

And  word  by  word  unfold 
Its  meaning  as  we  ride  along,  — 

And  when  my  tale  is  told, 
I  turn  my  eyes  to  hers  again,  — 
And  then,  —  and  then,  — 

(The  bridle  path  more  narrow  grows, 

The  leaves  shut  out  the  sun  ;) 
Where  the  wind's  lips  left  their  one  rose 

My  own  leave  more  than  one  : 
While  the  leaves  murmur  up  above, 
And  laugh  for  love. 

This  was  the  place  ;  —  you  see  the  sky 

Now  'twixt  the  branches  bare  ; 
About  the  path  the  dead  leaves  lie, 

And  songless  is  the  air  ;  — 
All 's   changed  since  then,   for  that,   you 

know, 
Was  long  ago. 

Let  us  ride  on  !     The  wind  is  cold,  — 

Let  us  ride  on  —  ride  fast  !  — 
'T  is  winter,  and  we  knew  of  old 

That  love  could  never  last 
Without  the  summer  and  the  sun  !  — 
Let  us  ride  on  ! 

A  CRY 

Lo,  I  am  weary  of  all, 

Of  men  and  their  love  and  their  hate  ; 
I  have  been  long  enough  Life's  thrall 

And  the  toy  of  a  tyrant  Fate. 

I  would  have  nothing  but  rest, 
I  would  not  struggle  again  ; 


Take  me  now  to  thy  breast, 
Earth,  sweet  mother  of  men. 

Hide  me  and  let  me  sleep  ; 

Give  me  a  lonely  tomb 
So  close  and  so  dark  and  so  deep 

I  shall  hear  no  trumpet  of  doom. 

There  let  me  lie  forgot 

When  the  dead  at  its  blast  are  gone  ; 
Give  me  to  hear  it  not, 

But  only  to  slumber  on. 

This  is  the  fate  I  crave, 

For  I  look  to  the  end  and  see 

If  there  be  not  rest  in  the  grave 
There  will  never  be  rest  for  me. 


THE   AGE 


A  PALE   and   soul-sick   woman  with   wan 

eyes 

Fixed  on  their  own  reflection  in  the  glass, 
Uncertain  lips  half-oped  to  say  "  Alas, 
Naked  I  stand  between  two  mysteries, 
Finding  my  wisdom  naught  who  am  most 

wise." 

Behind,  the  shapes  and  fiery  shadows  pass 
Of  fervent  life  ;  no  joy  in  them  she  has, 
But  gazing  on  herself  she  moans  and  sighs. 
And  yet  of  knowledge  she  doth  hold  the 

key, 

And  Power  and  Pleasure    are    her   hand- 
maidens, 

And  all  past  years  have  given  of  their  best 
To  make   her   rich  and  great  and  strong 

and  free, 

Who  stands  in  slack  and  listless  impotence, 
Marvelling  sadly  at  her  own  unrest. 


Her    children    cluster    round    about    her 

knees  ; 
The  hoarded  wealth  and   wisdom   of  the 

Dead 

Of  all  past  time  they  have  inherited, 
And    still    within    their    hands    it    doth 

increase  ; 

Yet  in  their  eyes  is  mirrored  her  dis-peace, 
Her  weariness  within  their  hearts  is  shed  ; 
Her  dreary  sorrow  weighs  each  drooping 

head, 
And  each  soul  sickens  with  her  fell  disease. 


CHARLOTTE   ELLIOT  — WILLIAM    DAWSON 


535 


Beneath  their  feet  lie  many  broken  toys, 
They  are    too    old   to    laugh,  too  wise  to 

pray, 

Or  look    to   God    for   wage    or  chastise- 
ment : 


They  have  known  ail  sorrows,  wearied  of 

all  joys, 

Fed  all  desires,  and  none  hath  said  them  nay ; 
Two  things   alone   they   lack,    Peace   and 

Content. 


iiatip  Charlotte  <£fliot 


THE   WIFE   OF   LOKI 

CURSED  by  the  gods  and   crowned   with 

shame, 

Fell  father  of  a  direful  brood, 
Whose  crimes  have  filled  the  heaven  with 

flame 
And  drenched  the  earth  with  blood  ; 

Loki,  the  guileful  Loki,  stands 
Within  a  rocky  mountain-gorge  ; 

Chains  gird  his  body,  feet,  and  hands, 
Wrought  in  no  mortal  forge. 

Coiled  on  the  rock,  a  mighty  snake 
Above  him,  day  and  night,  is  hung, 

With  dull  malignant  eyes  awake, 
And  poison-dropping  tongue. 

Drop  follows  drop  in  ceaseless  flow, 
Each  falling  where  the  other  fell, 


To  lay  upon  his  blistered  brow 
The  liquid  fire  of  hell. 

But  lo,  beside  the  howling  wretch 
A  woman  stands,  devoid  of  dread, 

And  one  pale  arm  is  seen  to  stretch 
Above  his  tortured  head  ! 

All  through  the  day  is  lifted  up, 

And  all  the  weary  night-time  through, 

One  patient  hand  that  holds  a  cup 
To  catch  the  poison-dew. 

Sometimes  the  venom  overfills 

The  cup,  and  she  must  pour  it  forth  ; 

With  Loki's  curses  then  the  hills 
Are  rent  from  south  to  north. 

But  she  in  answer  only  sighs, 
And  lays  her  lips  upon  his  face, 

And,  with  love's  anguish  in  her  eyes, 
Resumes  her  constant  place. 


UDiHiam 

A    CHILD'S    PORTRAIT 

HER  face  is  hushed  in  perfect  calm, 
Her  lips  half-open  hint  the  psalm 

The  angels  sing,  who  wear  God's  palm  : 
And  in  her  eyes  a  liquid  light, 

With  somewhat  of  a  starry  sheen, 

Conies  welling  upward  from  the  white 

And  vestal  soul  that  throbs  within. 

A  golden  tangle  is  her  hair 

That  holds  the  sunlight  in  its  snare  ; 
And  one  pure  lily  she  doth  wear 

In  her  white  robe  :  and  she  doth  seem 
A  flower-like  creature,  who  will  fade 


Datu.son 


If  suns  strike  down  too  rude  a  beam, 
Or  winds  blow  roughly  on  her  shade. 

The  golden  ladders  of  the  Dawn 
Meet  at  her  feet,  where  on  the  lawn 

She  stands,  in  tender  thought  withdrawn  j 
And  little  wonder  would  it  be, 

If  on  those  slanting  stairs  she  trod, 

And,  with  one  farewell  smile  toward  me( 

Were  caught  into  the  smile  of  God. 

BIRD'S   SONG   AT   MORNING 

0  THOU  that  cleavest  heaven 
With  such  unmastered  flight, 


536 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


To  whom  the  fates  have  given 
For  sport  the  sky's  blue  height; 
Where  cloud  with  cloud  is  meeting, 
I  see  thy  bright  wings  beating, 
And  flashing  and  retreating 
Against  the  morning  light  ! 

No  toilsome  task  thon  knowest, 
No  day  with  tears  begun, 
Lighthearted  forth  thou  goest 
At  morn  to  meet  the  sun  ; 
All  day  thy  song  thou  triest 
From  lowest  note  to  highest, 
And  all  unweary  fliest 
Until  the  day  be  done. 

Thou  knowest  no  toil  for  raiment, 
No  pain  of  mocked  desire  ; 
The  skies  are  thy  song's  payment, 
The  sun  thy  throne  of  fire. 
Thou  askest  and  receivest, 
And  if  perchance  thou  grievest, 
At  will  the  world  thou  leavest 
On  wings  that  never  tire. 

Yet  we  of  grosser  stature 
Have  in  thy  flight  a  part, 
We  share  thy  tameless  nature, 
We  have  a  nobler  art. 
When  thou  art  tired  returning, 
There  mount  in  love  and  yearning, 
Toward  suns  of  keener  burning, 
The  winged  thoughts  of  our  heart. 

Within  our  souls  are  folden 
The  wings  thou  canst  not  share, 
We  see  a  dawn  more  golden, 
We  breathe  diviner  air  : 
In  sleep  when  toil  is  ended, 
In  prayer  with  hope  attended, 
We  traverse  ways  more  splendid, 
And  see  a  world  more  fair. 

Yet  oft,  when  day  is  gleaming 
On  sleepless  eyes,  we  vow 
We  would  exchange  our  dreaming 
To  be  one  hour  as  thou  ! 
Such  discontent  we  borrow, 
That  we  forget  in  sorrow 
We  have  the  long  to-morrow, 
Thou  only  hast  the  NOW. 


IDEAL   MEMORY 

IF  in  the  years  that  come  such  thing  should 

be 
That  we  should  part,  with  tears  or  deadly 

strife, 

That  we  should  cease  to  share  a  common  life. 
Or  walk  estranged  in  voiceless  misery, 
Then  by  this  night  of  love  remember  me. 

For  tired  hearts  at  last  an  end  shall  be, 
For  tired  feet  the  pitfall  grave  doth  wait : 
Can  we  escape  this  common  trick  of  fate  ? 
More  fortunate  than  all  beside  are  we  ? 
Wherefore  by  this  night's  love  remember 


Not  by  my  worst,  when  dull  or  bitterly 
The  mind  moved,  and  the  evil  in  my  blood 
Worked   words   of   anger   thy   meek   will 

withstood, 
Not  by  the  hours  I  sinned  'gainst  love  and 

thee, 
Oh,  not  by  these,  dear  love,  remember  me. 

First  in  our  mind  live  things  that  perfect  be, 
All  shapes  of  joy  or  beauty,  —  day's  low 

light 

Dying  along  the  seaward  edge  of  night, 
The  first  sweet  violet,  music's  ecstasy, 
Making  the  heart  leap,  —  so  remember  me. 

For  I  would  have  thy  mind  and  memory 
A  chamber  of  sweet  sounds  and  fragrances. 
Let  the  ill  pass  :  its  power  to  hurt  was  less 
Than  joy's  to  bless  us.     I  remember  thee 
By  thy  first  kiss  ;  Oh,  thus  remember  me  ! 

There  was  an  hour  wherein  a  god's  degree 
And  stature  seemed  to  clothe  me?  and  I 

stood 
Supremely  strong,  and  high,  and  great,  and 

good  : 

Oh,  by  that  hour,  when  all  I  aimed  to  be 
I  did  appear,  by  that  remember  me  ! 

TO   A   DESOLATE    FRIEND 

0  FRIEND,  like  some  cold  wind  to-day 
Your  message  came,  and  chilled  the  light  ?, 
Your  house  so  dark,  and  mine  so  bright,  — 

1  could  not  weep,  I  could  not  pray  1 


FRANCES    ISABEL   PARNELL 


537 


My  wife  and  I  had  kissed  at  morn,  • 
My  children's  lips  were  full  of  song  ; 
O  friend,  it  seemed  such  cruel  wrong, 
My  life  so  full,  and  yours  forlorn  ! 

We  slept  last  night  clasped  hand  in  hand, 
Secure  and  calm  —  and  never  knew 
How  fared  the  lonely  hours  with  you, 
What  time  those  dying  lips  you  f  mned. 

We  dreamed  of  love,  and  did  not  see 
The  shadow  pass  across  our  dream  ; 
We  heard  the  murmur  of  a  stream, 
Not  death's,  for  it  ran  bright  and  free. 

And  in  the  dark  her  gentle  soul 
Passed  out,  but  oh  !  we  knew  it  not ! 
My  babe  slept  fast  within  her  cot, 
While  yours  woke  to  the  slow  bell's  toll. 

She  paused  a  moment,  —  who  can  tell  ?  — 
Before  our  windows,  but  we  lay 
So  deep  in  sleep  she  went  away, 
And  only  smiled  a  sad  farewell  ! 

It  would  be  like  her  ;  well  we  know 
How  oft  she  waked  while  others  slept  — 
She  never  woke  us  when  she  wept, 
It  would  be  like  her  thus  to  go  ! 

Ah,  friend  !  you  let  her  stray  too  far 
Within  the  shadow-haunted  wood, 
Where  deep  thoughts  never  understood 
Breathe  on  us  and  like  anguish  are. 

One  day  within  that  gloom  there  shone 
A  heavenly  dawn,  and  with  wide  eyes 
She  saw  God's  city  crown  the  skies, 
Since  when  she  hasted  to  be  gone. 

Too  much  you  yielded  to  her  grace  ; 
Renouncing  self,  she  thus  became 
An  angel  with  a  human  name, 
And  angels  coveted  her  face. 


f  ramcg 


AFTER   DEATH 

SHALL  mine  eyes  behold  thy  glory,  O  my 

country  ?     Shall  mine  eyes   behold 

thy  glory  ? 
Or  shall  the  darkness  close  around  them, 

ere  the  sun-blaze  break  at  last  upon 

thy  story  ? 


Earth's. door  you  set  so  wide,  alack 
She  saw  God's  gardens,  and  she  went 
A  moment  forth  to  look  ;  she  meant 
No  wrong,  but  oh !  she  came  not  back  I 

Dear  friend,  what  can  I  say  or  sing, 
But  this,  that  she  is  happy  there  ? 
We  will  not  grudge  those  gardens  fair 
Where  her  light  feet  are  wandering. 

The  child  at  play  is  ignorant 
Of  tedious  hours  ;  the  years  for  you 
To  her  are  moments  :  and  you  too 
Will  join  her  ere  she  feels  your  want. 

The  path  she  wends  we  cannot  track  : 
And  yet  some  instinct  makes  us  know 
Hers  is  the  joy,  and  ours  the  woe,  — 
We  dare  not  wish  her  to  come  back  ! 


ANGEL   AT   THE   FORD 


I   SOUGHT   to    hold  her,   but   within    her 

eyes 
I  read  a  new  strange  meaning  ;  faint  they 

prayed, 
"  Oh,  let  me  pass  and  taste  the  great  sur- 

prise ; 
Behold  me  not  reluctant  nor  afraid  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  will  strive  with  God  for  this  !  "  I 

cried, 

"  As  man  with  man,  like  Jacob  at  the  brook, 
Only  be  thou,  dear  heart,  upon  iny  side  !  '  ' 
"Be  still,"  she  answered,  "very  still,  and 

look  !  " 

And  straightway  I  discerned  with  inward 

dread 

The  multitudinous  passing  of  white  souls, 
Who   paused,  each  one  with  sad   averted 

head, 
And  flashing  of  indignant  aureoles. 


When   'the    nations    ope   for    thee    their 

queenly  circle,  as  a  sweet  new  sister 

hail  thee, 
Shall  these  lips  be  sealed  in  callous  death 

and  silence,  that  have  known  but  to 

bewail  thee  ? 


538 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Shall  the  ear  be  deaf  that  only  loved  thy 

praises,  when  all  men  their  tribute 

bring-  thee  ? 
Shall  the  mouth  be  clay  that  sang  thee  in 

thy  squalor,  when  all  poets'  mouths 

shall  sing  thee  ? 

Ah,  the  harpings  and  the  salvos  and  the 
shoutings  of  thy  exiled  sons  return- 
ing ! 

I  should  hear,  though  dead  and  mouldered, 
and  the  grave-damps  should  not 
chill  my  bosom's  burning. 

Ah,  the  tramp  of  feet  victorious  !  I  should 
hear  them  'mid  the  shamrocks  and 
the  mosses, 


And  my  heart  should  toss  within  the  shroud 
and  quiver  as  a  captive  dreamer 
tosses. 

I  should  turn  and  rend  the  cere-clothes 
round  me,  giant  sinews  I  should  bor- 
row— 

Crying,  "O  my  brothers,  I  have  alsc 
loved  her  in  her  loneliness  and  sor- 
row. 

"  Let  me  join  with  you  the  jubilant  pro- 

cession  ;  let  me  chant  with  you  her 

story  ; 
Then  contented   I   shall  go  back   to   the 

shamrocks,  now  mine  eyes  have  seen 

her  glory  ! " 


SUIice 


THE    MODERN    POET 

A   SONG   OF   DERIVATIONS 

I  COME  from  nothing  ;  but  from  where 
Come  the  undying  thoughts  I  bear  ? 

Down,  through  long  links  of  death  and 
birth, 

From  the  past  poets  of  the  earth. 
My  immortality  is  there. 

I  am  like  the  blossom  of  an  hour. 

But  long,  long  vanished  sun  and  shower 

Awoke  my  breath  i'  the  young  world's  air. 

I  track  the  past  back  everywhere 
Through  seed   and  flower  and   seed  and 
flower. 

Or  I  am  like  a  stream  that  flows 
Full  of  the  cold  springs  that  arose 

In  morning  lands,  in  distant  hills  ; 

And  down  the  plain  my  channel  fills 
With  melting  of  forgotten  snows. 

Voices  I  have  not  heard  possessed 
My  own  fresh  songs  ;    my   thoughts  are 
blessed 

With  relics  of  the  far  unknown  ; 

And  mixed  with  memories  not  my  own 
The  sweet  streams  throng  into  my  breast. 

Before  this  life  began  to  be, 
The  happy  songs  that  wake  in  me 


Woke  long  ago,  and  far  apart 
Heavily  on  this  little  heart 
Presses  this  immortality. 

SONG 

MY  Fair,  no  beauty  of  thine  will  last, 

Save  in  my  love  's  eternity. 

Thy  smiles,  that  light  thee  fitfully, 
Are  lost  forever  —  their  moment  past  — 

Except  the  few  thou  givest  to  me. 

Thy  sweet  words  vanish  day  by  day, 

As  all  breath  of  mortality  ; 

Thy  laughter,  done,  must  cease  to  be. 
And  all  thy  dear  tones  pass  away, 

Except  the  few  that  sing  to  me. 

Hide  then  within  my  heart,  oh,  hide 
All  thou  art  loath  should  go  from  thee,. 
Be  kinder  to  thyself  and  me. 

My  cupful  from  this  river's  tide 
Shall  never  reach  the  long  sad  sea 

CHANGELESS 

A  POET  of  one  mood  in  all  my  lays, 
Ranging  all  life  to  sing  one  only  love, 
Like    a   west   wind    across    the  world    I 

move, 
Sweeping  my  harp  of  floods  mine  own  wild 

ways. 


PAKENHAM   BEATTY 


539 


The  countries  change,  but  not  the  west- 
wind  days 

Which  are  my  songs.  My  soft  skies  shine 
above, 

And  on  all  seas  the  colors  of  a  dove, 

And  on  all  fields  a  flash  of  silver  grays. 

I  make  the  whole  world  answer  to  my 
art 

And  sweet  monotonous  meanings.  In  your 
ears 

I  change  not  ever,  bearing,  for  my  part, 

One  thought  that  is  the  treasure  of  my 
years, 

A  small  cloud  full  of  rain  upon  my  heart 

And  in  mine  arms,  clasped,  like  a  child  in 
tears. 

RENOUNCEMENT 

I  MUST  not  think  of  thee  ;  and,  tired  yet 
strong, 

I  shun  the  thought  that  lurks  in  all  de- 
light— 

The  thought  of  thee  —  and  in  the  blue 
Heaven's  height, 

And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song. 

Oh,  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that 
throng 

This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits,  hid- 
den yet  bright  ; 


But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight ; 
I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 
But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult 

day, 
When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch 

I  keep, 

And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 
Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away,  — 
With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the 

first  sleep 
I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gathered  to  thy  heart. 

SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  AT  DAY- 
BREAK 

ALL  my  stars  forsake  me, 
And  the  dawn-winds  shake  me  : 
Where  shall  I  betake  me  ? 

Whither  shall  I  run 
Till  the  set  of  the  sun, 
Till  the  day  be  done  ? 

To  the  mountain-mine, 
To  the  boughs  o'  the  pine, 
To  the  blind  man's  eyne, 

To  a  brow  that  is 
Bowed  upon  the  knees, 
Sick  with  memories. 


CHARLES    LAMB 

THOUGH  our  great  love  a  little  wrong  his 

fame, 

And  seeing  him  with  such  familiar  eyes 
We  say  "  how  kind  "  more  often  than  "  how 

wise," 
Such  is   the   simple    reverence  he   would 

claim  ; 
He   would    not    have    us  call  him  by  a 

name 
Higher  than  that  of  friend,  —  yet  by  this 

grave 

We  feel  the  saint  not  pure,  nor  hero  brave, 
And  all  the  martyr's  patience  put  to  shame. 
Brother,  we  leave  thee  by  thy  sister's 

side  ; 

Whom  such  a  love  bound  let  not  death  di- 
vide ; 


She  is  at  peace,  now,  brother,  thou  canst  rest; 
Thy  long  sad  guardianship  of  love  is  o'er, 
And  gentle  Shakespeare  on  the  dead  men's 

shore 
Salutes  thy  gentle  ghost  that  praised  him 

best. 

THE   DEATH   OF   HAMPDEN 

SCEXE.  —  A  tent  in  the  Parliamentary  camp. 
HAMPDEN  lies  wounded,  and  CROMWELL  is 
bending  over  him. 

Hampden.     Spare   all   who  yield  ;  alas, 

that  we  must  pierce 
One  English  heart  for  England  ! 

Cromwell.  How  he  raves  ! 

The  fever  is  at  height. 

Hamp.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

My  wound  is  nothing  ;  a  little  loss  of  blood  ; 


540 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


I  fear  much  more  must  flow  from  worthier 

veins 

Ere  England's  hurt  be  healed. 
Crom.     How  powerful  are  base  things  to 

destroy  ! 
The  brute's  part  in  them  kills  the  god's  in 

us, 
And    robs    the   world    of    many   glorious 

deeds  ; 

In  all  the  histories  of  famous  men 
We  never  find  the  greatest  overthrown 
Of  such  as  were  their  equals,  but  the  head, 
Screened  of  its  laurels  from  the  lightning's 

flash, 
Falls  by  some  chance  blow  of  an  obscure 

hand, 

And  glory  cannot  guard  the  hero's  heart 
Against  the  least  knave's  dagger. 

Hamp.  You  cannot  help  me. 

Save  yourself,  sir  ;  my  best  prayers  keep 

you  safe  — 

I  fain  would  win  as  far  as  yonder  house  ; 
It  was  my  dear  dead  wife's  ;  such  shapes 

are  there 

As  I  would  see  about  my  dying  bed, 
To  make  me  sure  of  heaven —     Forgive 

me,  love, 

That  I  am  loath  to  come  yet  to  thy  heart  ; 
I  have  only  lived  without  thee,  O  my  best, 
That  I  might  live  for  England  !    Is  Crom- 
well come  ? 

Crom.     How  is  it  with  you,  cousin  ? 
Hamp.  Very  well  ; 

With  hope  to  be  soon  better  ;  gentle  cou- 
sin, 
I  have  scant  time  to  speak  and  much  to 

say, 
That  thou  must  hear  —    Men's  eyes  more 

clearly  see, 
Ere  the  long  darkness  ;  and  thus  plagues, 

and  wars, 
Earthquake,  and  overthrow  of  prosperous 

states, 

Have  been  foretold  by  lips  of  dying  men, 
Who  saw  their  country's  end  before  their 

own ; 

But  I  die  happy  ;  with  a  joy  too  keen 
For  this  weak  wounded  body,  and  delight 
Of  eager  youth  that  dreams  of  noble  deeds  ; 
Knowing  the  greatness  in  thee,  which  occa- 
sion 
Has  not  yet  shown  the  world,  and  thine 

own  self 
Hast    only    dimly    guessed    at —    These 

hands  I  hold 


Shall  bear  the  weight  of  England's  great- 
ness up  ; 
Thy  name,  mine  own  dear  kinsman's,  shall 

have  sound 
More  royal  than  all  crowned  kings'  ;  the 

slave 

Shall  murmur  it  in  dreams  of  liberty, 
The  patriot  in  his  dungeon,  and  endure, 
The  tyrant,  and  grow  merciful  for  fear  ; 
And  when  thou  hast  done  high  and  song 

worthy  deeds, 
At  length  shall  come  thy  poet,  whose  purer 

eyes 
God  shall  seclude  from  sight  of  our  gross 

Earth, 

And  for  the  dull  light  of  our  darker  day 
Give   all   heaven   to   his  vision,   star  with 

star 

Shining,  and  splendid  and  sonorous  spheres 
To  make  him  music  ;  and  those  sacred  lips, 
More  eloquent  than  the  Mantuan's,  prais- 
ing thee, 
Shall   make   thy  fame  a  memory  for   all 

time, 

And  set  a  loftier  laurel  on  thy  head 
Than  any  gathered  from  red  fields  of  war  ; 
So  great  shall  England's  great  need  make 

thee,  Cromwell  ; 
Whom   thou  forget  not  still   to  love  and 

serve, 
Holding  thy  greatness  given  to  make  her 

great, 
Thy  strength   to   keep   her   strong ;    then 

(since  oblivion 
Is  what  men   chiefly  fear  in  death),  dear 

cousin, 

I  would  not  be  forgotten  of  thy  love. 
And  now  I  am  loath  the  last  words  I  shall 

speak 

Must  be  of  strife  —  yet  I  must  utter  them  ; 
Be  not  of  those  that  vex  the  angry  times 
With  meek-mouthed  proffers  of  rejected 

peace  ; 
When  men  have  set  the  justice  of  their 

cause 

To  sharp  arbitrament  of  answering  arms, 
Tougues  should  keep  mute,  and  steel  hold 

speech  with  steel, 
Till    victory   can    plead    the   conquered's 

cause, 

And  make  soft  mercy  no  more  dangerous. 
We  must  o'ercome  our  foes  to  make  them 

friends.  .  .  . 
Thy  hand,   dear  cousin  .  .  .  Sweet,  I  heal 

thy  voice 


OLIVER  MADOX  BROWN— EDWARD  LEFROY 


That  calls  me,  and  leave  England  for  thy 
sake  ; 

Kiss  me,  dear  love,  and  take  my  soul  to 
God  !  .  .  . 

Receive  my  soul,  Lord  Jesus  !  O  God, 
save 

My  country  —     God  be  merciful  to  — 

Crom.  O  Lord  of  Hosts,  if  thou  wilt  only 
give  me 

An  England  with  but  three  such  English- 
men, 


My  life  shall  be  as  noble  as  this  man's.  .  .  . 
Farewell,  dear  cousin,   perfect  heart  that 

beats 
No  more  for  England  —     Think  of  me  in 

Heaven, 
And   help  to  make  me   all   thou   saidst  I 

should  be,  — 

[Kneels  down  by  the  bed.     Rising,  and  look- 
ing steadfastly  at  the  dead  body  of  HAMP- 

DEN.J 

Yea,  and  I  shall  be. 


proton 


BEFORE   AND   AFTER 

AH  !  long  ago  since  I  or  thou 

Glanced    past   these    moorlands    brow   to 

brow, 

Our   mixed    hair    streaming    down   the 
wind  — 

So  fleet !  so  sweet  ! 
I  loved  thy  footsteps  more  than  thou 
Loved  my  whole  soul  or  body  through  — 
So  sweet !  so  fleet  !  ere  Fate  outgrew  the 
days  wherein  Life  sinned  ! 

And  ah  !  the  deep  steep  days  of  shame, 
Whose    dread   hopes   shrivelled   ere   they 

came, 

Or    vanished     down    Love 's    nameless 
void  — 

So  dread  !  so  dead  ! 

Dread  hope  stripped  dead  from  each  soul's 
shame, 


Soulless  alike  for  praise  or  blame  — 

Too  dead  to  dread  the  eternities  whose 
heaven  its  shame  destroyed. 


LAURA'S    SONG 

ALAS  !  who  knows  or  cares,  my  love, 
If  our  love  live  or  die,  — 

If  thou  thy  frailty,  sweet,  should  prove, 
Or  my  soul  thine  deny  ? 

Yet  merging  sorrow  in  delight, 

Love's  dream  disputes  our  devious  night. 

None  know,  sweet  love,  nor  care  a  thought 
For  our  heart's  vague  desire, 

Nor  if  our  longing  come  to  naught, 
Or  burn  in  aimless  fire  ; 

Let  them  alone,  we  '11  waste  no  sighs  : 

Cling  closer,  love,  and  close  thine  eyes  ! 


<£&toarD  Cracroft  tlcfrop 


A   SHEPHERD   MAIDEN 

ON  shores  of  Sicily  a  shape  of  Greece  ! 

Dear  maid,  what  means  this  lonely  com- 
muning 

With  winds  and  waves  ?  What  fancy, 
what  caprice, 

Has  drawn  thee  from  thy  fellows  ?  Do 
they  fling 


Rude  jests  at  thee  ?  Or  seekest  thou  sur- 
cease 

Of  drowsy  toil  in  noonday  shepherding  ? 

Enough  :  our  questions  cannot  break  thy 
peace  ; 

Thou  art  a  shade,  —  a  long-entombe'd 
thing. 

But  still  we  see  thy  sun-lit  face,  O  sweet, 

Shining  eternal  where  it  shone  of  yore  ; 


542 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Still  comes  a  vision  of  blue-veined  feet 
That  stand  forever  on  a  pebbly  shore  ; 
While  round,  the  tidal  waters  flow  and  fleet 
And  ripple,  ripple,  ripple,  evermore. 

A   SICILIAN   NIGHT 

COME,  stand  we  here  within  this  cactus- 
brake, 

And  let  the  leafy  tangle  cloak  us  round  : 
It  is  the  spot  whereof  the  Seer  spake  — 
To  nymph  and  faun  a  nightly  trysting- 

ground. 
How  still  the  scene  !     No  zephyr  stirs  to 

shake 

The  listening  air.     The  trees  are  slumber- 
bound 

In  soft  repose.     There  's  not  a  bird  awake 
To  witch  the  silence  with  a  silver  sound. 
Now  haply  shall  the  vision  trance  our  eyes, 
By  heedless  mortals  all  too  rarely  scanned, 
Of  mystic  maidens  in  immortal  guise, 
Who  mingle  shadowy  hand  with  shadowy 

hand, 

And,  moving  o'er  the  lilies  circle-wise, 
Beat  out  with  naked  feet  a  saraband. 


A   FOOTBALL-PLAYER 

IF  I  could  paint  you,  friend,  as  you  stand 

there, 

Guard  of  the  goal,  defensive,  open-eyed, 
Watching  the   tortured  bladder  slide  and 

glide 
Under    the    twinkling    feet ;  arms    bare; 

head  bare, 
The  breeze  a-tremble   through   crow-tufts 

of  hair ; 
Red-brown   in    face,   and   ruddier   having 

spied 

A  wily  foeman  breaking  from  the  side, 
Aware  of  him,  —  of  all  else  unaware  : 
If  I  could  limn  you,  as  you  leap  and  fling 
Your   weight   against   his   passage,  like   a 

wall  ; 
Clutch   him,  and   collar   him,  and   rudely 

cling 
For  one  brief  moment  till  he  falls  —  you 

fall: 
My  sketch  would  have  what  Art  can  never 

give  — 
Sinew   and    breath   and    body ;    it   would 

live. 


THE      BEES      OF      MYDDELTON 
MANOR 

I7TH    CENTURY 

BUZZING,    buzzing,    buzzing,    my    golden- 
belted  bees  : 
My  little    son   was  seven  years  old  —  the 

mint-flower  touched  his  knees  ; 
Yellow  were  his  curly  locks  ; 
Yellow  were  his  stocking-clocks  ; 
His  plaything  of  a  sword  had  a  diamond  in 

its  hilt  ; 

Where  the  garden  beds  lay  sunny, 
And  the  bees  were  making  honey, 
"  For   God   and   the   king  —  to   arms !    to 
arms  !  "  the  day  long  would  he  lilt. 

Smock'd  in  lace  and  flowered  brocade,  my 

pretty  son  of  seven 
Wept   sore   because   the   kitten  died,  and 

left  the  charge  uneven. 
"  I  head  one  battalion,  mother  — 
Kitty,"  sobbed  he,  "  led  the  other  ! 


And  when  we  reach'd  the  bee-hive  bench 
We  used  to  halt  and  storm  the  trench  : 
If  we  could  plant  our  standard  here, 
With  all  the  bees  a-buzzing  near, 
And  fly  the  colors  safe  from  sting, 
The  town  was  taken  for  the  king  !  " 
Flitting,  flitting  over  the  thyme,  my  bees 

with  yellow  band  — 
My  little    son    of   seven    came    close,  and 

clipp'd  me  by  the  hand  ; 
A  wreath  of  mourning  cloth  was  wound 
His  small  left  arm  and  sword-hilt  round, 
And  on  the  thatch  of  every  hive  a  wisp  of 

black  was  bound. 
"  Sweet  mother,  we  must  tell  the  bees,  or 

they  will  swarm  away  : 
Ye   little  bees  ! "  he    called,  "  draw  nigh, 

and  hark  to  what  I  say, 
And  make   us   golden  honey  still  for  our 
white  wheaten  bread, 
Though  never  more 
We  rush  on  war 
With  Kitty  at  our  head  : 


MAY   PROBYN 


543 


Who  '11  give  the  toast 
When  swords  are  cross'd, 
Now  Kitty  lieth  dead  ?  " 

Buzzing,  buzzing,  buzzing,  my  bees  of  yel- 
low girth  : 

My  son  of  seven  changed  his  mood,  and 
clasp'd  me  in  his  mirth. 

"  Sweet  mother,  when  I  grow  a  man  and 
fall  on  battle-field," 

He  cried,  and  down  in  the  daisied  grass 
upon  one  knee  he  kueel'd, 

"  I  charge  thee,  come  and  tell  the  bees 
how  I  for  the  king  lie  dead  ; 

And  thou  shalt  never  lack  fine  honey  for 
thy  wheaten  bread  !  " 


Flitting,   flitting,   flitting,    my   busy   bees, 

alas  ! 

No  footstep  of  my  soldier-  son  came  clink- 
ing through  the  grass. 
Thrice  he  kiss'd  me  for  farewell, 
And  far  on  the  stone  his  shadow  fell  ; 
He  buckled  spurs  and  sword-belt  on,  as  the 

sun  began  to  stoop, 
Set    foot  in  stirrup,  and  sprang  to  horse, 

and  rode  to  join  his  troop. 
To  the  west  he  rode,  where  the  winds 

were  at  play, 

And  Monmouth's  army  mustering  lay  ; 
Where    Bridgewater   flew    her    banner 

high, 
And  gave  up  her  keys,  when  the  Duke 

came  by  ; 

And  the  maids  of  Taunton  paid  him  court 
With  colors  their  own  white  hands  had 

wrought ; 

And  red  as  a  field,  where  blood  doth  run, 
Sedgemoor  blazed  in  the  setting  sun. 

Broider'd    sash    and    clasp    of    gold,  my 

soldier  son,  alas  ! 

The  mint  was  all  in  flower,  and  the  clover 
in  the  grass : 

"  With  every  bed 
In  bloom,"  I  said, 
"  WThat  further  lack  the  bees, 
That  they  buzz  so  loud, 
Like  a  restless  cloud, 
Among  the  orchard  trees  ?  " 
No   voice   in   the   air,  from   Sedgemoor 

field, 

Moan'd  out  how  Grey  and  the  horse  had 
reel'd  ; 


Met  me  no  ghost,  with  haunting  eyes, 
That  westward  pointed  'mid  its  sighs, 
And  pull'd  apart  a  bloody  vest, 
And  show'd  the  sword-gash  in  its  breast. 

Empty  hives,  and  flitting  bees,  and  sunny 

morning  hours  : 
I  snipp'd  the  blossom'd  lavender,  and  the 

pinks,  and  the  gillyflowers  ; 
No  petal  trembled  in  my  hold  — 
I  saw  not  the  dead  stretched  stark  and 

cold 
On  the  trampled  turf  at  the  shepherd's 

door, 
In  the  cloak  and  the  doublet  Monmouth 

wore, 
With  Monmouth's   scarf  and  headgear 

on, 
And  the  eyes,  not  clos'd,  of  my  soldier 

son  ; 
I  knew  not  how,  ere  the  cocks  did  crow, 

the  fight  was  fought  in  the  dark, 
With  naught  for   guide  but   the    enemy's 
guns,  when  the  flint  flash'd  out  a 
spark, 

Till,  routed  at  first  sound  of  fire,  the  cav- 
alry broke  and  fled, 

And    the-  hoofs  struck  dumb,  where  they 
spuru'd  the  slain,  and  the  meadow 
stream  ran  red  ; 
I  saw  not  the  handful  of  horsemen  spur 

through  the  dusk,  and  out  of  sight, 
My  soldier  son   at    the  Duke's  left  hand, 
and  Grey  that  rode  on  his  right. 

Buzzing,  buzzing,  buzzing,  my  honey-mak- 
ing bees, 
They  left    the    musk,  and   the   marigolds 

and  the  scented  faint  sweet-peas  ; 
They  gather'd  in  a  darkening  cloud,  and 

sway'd,  and  rose  to  fly  ; 
A    blackness   on   the   summer   blue,   they 

swept  across  the  sky. 
Gaunt  and  ghastly  with  gaping  wounds  — 

(my  soldier  son,  alas  ! ) 
Footsore    and    faint,  the  messenger  came 

halting  through  the  grass. 
The  wind  went  by  and  shook  the  leaves  — 

the  mint-stalk  shed  its  flower  — 
And  I  miss'd   the    murmuring   round  the 

hives,   and   my   boding    heart   beat 

slower. 
His    soul    we    cheer'd    with    meat    and 

wine  ; 
With  women's  craft  and  balsam  fine 


544 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


We  bath'd  his  hurts,  and  bound  them 

soft, 
While  west  the  wind  played  through  the 

croft, 

And  the  low  sun  dyed  the  pinks  blood  red, 
And,  straying  near  the  mint-flower  shed, 
A  wild  bee  wanton'd  o'er  the  bed. 

He   told  how  my  son,  at    the    shepherd's 

door,   kept   guard    in   Monmouth's 

clothes, 
While  Monmouth    donned   the  shepherd's 

frock,  in  hope  to  cheat  his  foes. 
A  couple  of  troopers  spied  him  stand, 
And  bade  him  yield  to  the  King's  com- 
mand : 
"  Surrender,    thou    rebel     as    good    as 

dead, 

A  price  is  set  on  thy  traitor  head  !  " 
My  soldier  son,  with  secret  smile, 
Held  both  at  bay  for  a  little  while, 
Dealt  them  such  death-blow  as  he  fell, 
Neither  was  left  the  tale  to  tell  ; 
With  dying  eyes,  that  asked  no  grace, 
They    stared    on   him    for    a    minute's 

space, 
And  felt  that   it  was   not   Monmouth's 

face. 
Crimson'd  through  was  Monmouth's  cloak, 

when  the  soldier  dropped   at   their 

side  — 
"  Those  knaves  will  carry  no  word,"   he 

said,  and  he  sniil'd  in  his  pain,  and 

died. 
"  Two  days, "  told  the  messenger,  "  did  we 

lie 

Hid  in  the  field  of  peas  and  rye, 
Hid  in  the  ditch  of  brake  and  sedge, 
With    the    enemy's    scouts  down   every 

hedge, 
Till  Grey  was  seized,  and  Monmouth  seized, 

that  under  the  fern  did  crouch, 
Starved,  and    haggard,  and    all  unshaved, 

with  a  few  raw  peas  in  his  pouch." 


No  music  soundeth  in  my  ears,  but  a  pass- 
ing bell  that  tolls 

For  gallant  lords  with  head  on  block  — 
sweet  Heaven  receive  their  souls  ! 


And  a  mound,  unnamed,  in  Sedgemooi 

grass, 
That  laps  my  soldier  son,  alas  ! 

The  bloom  is  shed  — 

The  bees  are  fled  — 
Myddelton  luck  it 's  done  and  dead. 

"IS    IT   NOTHING   TO   YOU?" 

WE  were  playing  on  the  green  together, 

My  sweetheart  and  I  — 
Oh  !  so  heedless  in  the  gay  June  weather, 

When  the  word  went  forth  that  we  must 

die. 
Oh  !  so  merrily  the  balls  of  amber 

And  of  ivory  tossed  we  to  the  sky, 
While  the  word  went  forth  in  the  King's 
chamber, 

That  we  both  must  die. 

Oh  !   so  idly,  straying  through  the  pleas- 
aunce, 

Plucked  we  here  and  there 
Fruit  and  bud,  while  in  the  royal  presence 

The  King's  son  was  casting  from  his  hair 
Glory  of  the  wreathen  gold  that  crowned  it, 

And,  ungirdling  all  his  garments  fair, 
Flinging  by  the  jewelled  clasp  that  bound  it, 

With  his  feet  made  bare, 

Down  the  myrtled  stairway  of  the  palace, 

Ashes  on  his  head, 

Came   he,   through  the    rose    and    citron 
alleys, 

In  rough  sark  of  sackcloth  habited, 
And  in  a  hempen  halter  —  oh  !  we  jested, 

Lightly,  and  we  laughed  as  he  was  led 
To  the  torture,  while  the  bloom  we  breasted 

Where  the  grapes  grew  red. 

Oh  !  so  sweet  the  birds,  when  he  was  dying, 

Piped  to  her  and  me  — 
Is  no  room  this  glad  June  day  for  sighing  — 

He  is  dead,  and  she  and  I  go  free  ! 
WThen  the  sun  shall  set  on  all  our  pleasure 

We   will  mourn  him  —     What,  so  you 

decree 

We   are   heartless —     Nay,  but  in   what 
measure 

Do  you  more  than  we  ? 


MACKENZIE  BELL  — TORU   DUTT 


545 


SPRING'S  IMMORTALITY 

THE  buds  awake  at  touch  of  Spring 
From  Winter's  joyless  dream  ; 

From  many  a  stone  the  ouzels  sing 
By  yonder  mossy  stream. 

The  cuckoo's  voice,  from  copse  and  vale, 

Lingers,  as  if  to  meet 
The  music  of  the  nightingale 

Across  the  rising  wheat  — 

The  bird  whom  ancient  Solitude 

Hath  kept  forever  young, 
Unaltered  since  in  studious  mood 

Calm  Milton  mused  and  sung. 

Ah,  strange  it  is,  dear  heart,  to  know 

Spring's  gladsome  mystery 
Was  sweet  to  lovers  long  ago  — 

Most  sweet  to  such  as  we  — 

That  fresh  new  leaves  and  meadow  flowers 
Bloomed  when  the  south  wind  came  ; 

While  hands  of  Spring  caressed  the  bowers, 
The  throstle  sang  the  same. 


Unchanged,  unchanged  the  throstle's  song, 
Unchanged  Spring's  answering  breath, 

Unchanged,  though  cruel  Time  was  strong, 
And  stilled  our  love  in  death. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  DANTE 
GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 

HERE  of  a  truth  the  world's  extremes  are 

met : 
Amid  the  gray,  the  moss-grown  tombs  of 

those 


Who  led  long  lives  obscure  till  came  the 

close 
When,  their  calm  days  being  done,  their 

suns  were  set  — 
Here  stands  a  grave,   all    monumentless 

yet, 

Wrapped  like  the  others  in  a  deep  repose  j 
But  while   yon   wakeful  ocean   ebbs  and 

flows 

It  is  a  grave  the  world  shall  not  forget, 
This  grave  on  which  meek   violets   grow 

and  thyme, 
Summer's  fair   heralds ;    and  a  stranger 

now 

Pauses  to  see  a  poet's  resting-place, 
But  one  of  those  who  will  in  many  a  clime 
On  each  return  of  this  sad  day  avow 
Fond  love's  regret  that  ne'er  they  saw  his 

face. 

AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

SHAKESPEARE,  thy  legacy  of  peerless  song 
Reveals  mankind  in  every  age  and  place, 
In  every  joy,  in  every  grief  and  wrong  : 
'T  is  England's  legacy  to  all  our  race. 
Little  we  know  of  all  thine  inner  life, 
Little  of  all  thy  swift,  thy  wondrous  years  — 
Years  filled  with  toil,  rich  years  whose  days 

were  rife 
With  strains  that  bring  us  mirth,  that  bring 

us  tears. 
Little   we   know,  and  yet  this   much   we 

know, 
Sense  was  thy  guiding  star  —  sense  guided 

thee 

To  live  in  this  thy  Stratford  long  ago, 
To  live  content  in  calm  simplicity  ; 
Greatest  of  those  who  wrought  with  soul 

aflame 
At  honest  daily  work  —  then  found  it  f ame» 


OUR  CASUARINA  TREE 

LIKE  a  huge  Python,  winding  round   and 

round 

The  rugged  trunk,  indented  deep  with 
scars, 


€oru  SDutt 

Up  to  its  very  summit  near  the  stars, 


A    creeper    climbs,    in    whose    embraces 

bound 

No  other  tree  could  live.     But  gallantly 
The  giant  wears  the  scarf,  and  flowers  are 
hung 


546 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


In  crimson  clusters  all  the  boughs  among, 
Whereon  all  day  are  gathered  bird  and 

bee  ; 

And  oft  at  nights  the  garden  overflows 
With  one  sweet  song  that  seems  to  have  no 

close, 
Sung  darkling  from  our  tree,  while  men 

repose. 

When   first    my  casement  is  wide    open 

thrown 

At  dawn,  my  eyes  delighted  on  it  rest ; 
Sometimes,  and  most  in  winter,  —  on  its 

crest 
A  gray  baboon  sits  statue-like  alone 

Watching   the  sunrise  ;   while  on  lower 

boughs 

His  puny  offspring  leap  about  and  play  ; 
And  far  and  near  kokilas  hail  the  day  ; 
And  to  their  pastures  wend  our  sleepy 

cows  ; 

And  in  the  shadow,  on  the  broad  tank  cast 
By  that  hoar  tree,  so  beautiful  and  vast, 
The  water-lilies  spring,  like  snow  enmassed. 

But  not  because  of  its  magnificence 
Dear  is  the  Casuarina  to  my  soul : 
Beneath   it    we  have    played ;    though 

years  may  roll, 

O   sweet  companions,  loved  with  love  in- 
tense, 
For  your  sakes,  shall  the  tree  be  ever 

dear. 

Blent  with  your  images,  it  shall  arise 
In  memory,  till  the  hot  tears  blind  mine 

eyes  ! 

What  is  that  dirge-like  murmur  that  I 
hear 


Like  the  sea  breaking  on  a  shingle-beach  ? 
It  is  the  tree's  lament,  an  eerie  speech, 
That  haply  to  the  unknown  land  may  reach. 

Unknown,  yet   well-known  to   the   eye  of 

faith ! 

Ah,  I  have  heard  that  wail  far,  far  away 
In  distant  lands,  by  many  a  sheltered  bay, 
When  slumbered  in  his   cave   the   water- 
wraith 
And  the  waves  gently  kissed  the  classic 

shore 

Of  France  or  Italy,  beneath  the  moon, 
When  earth  lay  tranced   in  a   dreamless 

swoon  : 

And  every  time  the  music  rose,  —  before 
Mine  inner  vision  rose  a  form  sublime, 
Thy  form,  O  Tree,  as  in  my  happy  prime 
I  saw  thee,  in  my  own  loved  native  clime. 

Therefore  I  fain  would  consecrate  a  lay 
Unto  thy  honor,  Tree,  beloved  of  those 
Who  now  in  blessed  sleep   for  aye  re- 
pose, — 

Dearer  than  life  to  me,  alas,  were  they  ! 
Mayst  thou  be  numbered  when  my  days 

are  done 
With  deathless  trees — like  those  in  Bor- 

rowdale, 

Under  whose  awful  branches  lingered  pale 
"  Fear,  trembling  Hope,  and  Death,  the 

skeleton, 
And  Time  the  shadow  ; "  and  though  weak 

the  verse 

That  would  thy   beauty  fain,  oh,  fain  re- 
hearse, 

May  Love   defend    thee   from   Oblivion's 
curse. 


THE    LAST   ABORIGINAL 

I  SEE  him  sit,  wild-eyed,  alone, 

Amidst  gaunt,  spectral,  moonlit  gums  ; 
He  waits  for  death  :  not  once  a  moan 

From  out  his  rigid  fixed  lips  comes  ; 
His  lank  hair  falls  adown  a  face 

Haggard  as  any  wave-worn  stone, 
And  in  his  eyes  I  dimly  trace 
The  memory  of  a  vanished  race. 

The  lofty  ancient  gum-trees  stand, 
Each  gray  and  ghostly  in  the  moon, 


The  giants  of  an  old  strange  land 
That  was  exultant  in  its  noon 

When  all  our  Europe  was  o'erturned 
With  deluge  and  with  shifting  sand, 

With  earthquakes  that  the  hills  iuurned 

And  central  fires  that  fused  and  burned. 

The  moon  moves  slowly  through  the  vast 
And  solemn  skies  ;  the  night  is  still, 

Save  when  a  warrigal  springs  past 
With  dismal  howl,  or  when  the  shrill 

Scream  of  a  parrot  rings  which  feels 
A  twining  serpent's  fangs  fixed  fast, 


WILLIAM   SHARP 


547 


Or  when  a  gray  opossum  squeals,  — 
Or  long  iguana,  as  it  steals 

From  bole  to  bole,  disturbs  the  leaves  : 
But  hushed  and  still  he  sits  —  who  knows 

That  all  is  o'er  for  him  who  weaves 
With  inner  speech,  malign,  morose, 

A  curse  upon  the  whites  who  came 
And  gathered  up  his  race  like  sheaves 

Of  thin  wheat,  fit  but  for  the  flame  — 

Who  shot  or  spurned  them  without  shame. 

He  knows  he  shall  not  see  again 

The  creeks  whereby  the  lyre-birds  sing  ; 

He  shall  no  more  upon  the  plain, 

Sun-scorched,  and  void  of  water-spring, 

Watch  the  dark  cassowaries  sweep 
In  startled  flight,  or,  with  spear  lain 

In  ready  poise,  glide,  twist,  and  creep 

Where  the  brown  kangaroo  doth  leap. 

No  more  in  silent  dawns  he  '11  wait 
By  still  lagoons,  and  mark  the  flight 

Of  black  swans  near  :  no  more  elate 
Whirl  high  the  boomerang  aright 

Upon  some  foe.     He  knows  that  now 
He  too  must  share  his  race's  night  — 

He  scarce  can  know  the  white  man's  plough 

Will  one  day  pass  above  his  brow. 

Last  remnant  of  the  Austral  race 

He  sits  and  stares,  with  failing  breath  : 

The  shadow  deepens  on  his  face, 

For  'midst  the  spectral  gums  waits  death  : 

A  dingo's  sudden  howl  swells  near  — 
He  stares  once  with  a  startled  gaze, 

As  half  in  wonder,  half  in  fear, 

Then  sinks  back  on  his  unknown  bier. 

THE    COVES   OF   CRAIL 

THE  moon-white  waters  wash  and  leap, 
The  dark  tide  floods  the  Coves  of  Crail  ; 

Sound,  sound  he  lies  in  dreamless  sleep, 
Nor  hears  the  sea-wind  wail. 

The  pale  gold  of  his  oozy  locks 

Doth  hither  drift  and  thither  wave  ; 

His  thin  hands  plash  against  the  rocks, 
His  white  lips  nothing  crave. 

Afar  away  she  laughs  and  sings  — 
A  song  he  loved,  a  wild  sea-strain  — 

Of  how  the  mermen  weave  their  rings 
Upon  the  reef-set  main. 


Sound,  sound  he  lies  in  dreamless  sleep, 

Nor  hears  the  sea- wind  wail, 
Though  with  the  tide  his  white  hands  creep 

Amid  the  Coves  of  Crail. 

THE   ISLE   OF    LOST   DREAMS 

THERE  is  an  Isle  beyond  our  ken, 
Haunted  by  Dreams  of  weary  men. 
Gray  Hopes  enshadow  it  with  wings 
Weary  with  burdens  of  old  things  : 
There  the  insatiate  water-springs 
Rise  with  the  tears  of  all  who  weep  : 
And  deep  within  it,  —  deep,  oh,  deep  1  — 
The  furtive  voice  of  Sorrow  sings. 
There  evermore, 

Till  Time  be  o'er, 

Sad,  oh,  so  sad  !  the  Dreams  of  men 
Drift  through  the  Isle  beyond  our  ken. 

THE    DEATH-CHILD 

SHE  sits  beneath  the  elder-tree 

And  sings  her  song  so  sweet, 

And  dreams  o'er  the  burn  that  darksornely 

Runs  by  her  moonwhite  feet. 

Her  hair  is  dark  as  starless  night, 
Her  flower-crowned  face  is  pale, 
But  oh,  her  eyes  are  lit  with  light 
Of  dread  ancestral  bale. 

She  sings  an  eerie  song,  so  wild 

With  immemorial  dule  — 

Though  young  and   fair,  Death's   mortal 

child 
That  sits  by  that  dark  pool. 

And  oft  she  cries  an  eldritch  scream, 
When  red  with  human  blood 
The  burn  becomes  a  crimson  stream, 
A  wild,  red,  surging  flood : 

Or  shrinks,  when  some  swift  tide  of  tears  — 
The  weeping  of  the  world  — 
Dark  eddying  'neath  man's  phantom-fean 
Is  o'er  the  red  stream  hurled. 

For  hours  beneath  the  elder-tree 
She  broods  beside  the  stream  ; 
Her  dark  eyes  filled  with  mystery. 
Her  dark  soul  rapt  in  dream. 

The  lapsing  flow  she  heedeth  not 
Through  deepest  depths  she  scans  • 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Life  is  the  shade  that  clouds  her  thought, 
As  Death 's  the  eclipse  of  man's.         * 

Time  seems  but  as  a  bitter  thing 
Remembered  from  of  yore  : 
Yet  ah  (she  thinks)  her  song  she  '11  sing 
When  Time's  long  reign  is  o'er. 

Erstwbiles  she  bends  alow  to  hear 
What  the  swift  water  sings, 
The  torrent  running  darkly  clear 
With  secrets  of  all  things. 

And  then  she  smiles  a  strange  sad  smile 
And  lets  her  harp  lie  long  ; 
The  death- waves  oft  may  rise  the  while, 
She  greets  them  with  no  song. 

Few  ever  cross  that  dreary  moor, 
Few  see  that  flower-crowned  head  ; 
But  whoso  knows  that  wild  song's  lure 
Kuoweth  that  he  is  dead. 


FROM   "SOSPIRI    DI    ROMA" 

SUSURRO 

BREATH  o'  the  grass, 
Ripple  of  wandering  wind, 
Murmur  of  tremulous  leaves  : 
A  moonbeam  moving  white 
Like  a  ghost  across  the  plain  : 
A  shadow  on  the  road  : 
And  high  up,  high, 
From  the  cypress-bough, 
A  long  sweet  melancholy  note. 
Silence. 

And  the  topmost  spray 
Of  the  cypress-bough  is  still 
As  a  wavelet  in  a  pool : 
The  road  lies  duskily  bare  : 
The  plain  is  a  misty  gloom  : 
Still  are  the  tremulous  leaves  ; 
Scarce  a  last  ripple  of  wind, 
Scarce  a  breath  i'  the  grass. 
Hush  :  the  tired  wind  sleeps  : 
Is  it  the  wind's  breath,  or 
Breath  o'  the  grass  ? 

RED   POPPIES 
IN   THE   SABINE  VALLEYS   NEAR    ROME 

THROUGH  the  seeding  grass, 
And  the  tall  corn, 
The  wind  goes  : 
With  nimble  feet, 


And  blithe  voice, 
Calling,  calling, 
The  wind  goes 
Through  the  seeding  grass, 
And  the  tall  corn. 

What  calleth  the  wind, 

Passing  by  — 

The  shepherd-wind  ? 

Far  and  near 

He  laugheth  low, 

And  the  red  poppies 

Lift  their  heads 

And  toss  i'  the  sun. 

A  thousand  thousand  blooms 

Tossed  i'  the  air, 

Banners  of  joy, 

For  't  is  the  shepherd-wind 

Passing  by, 

Singing  and  laughing  low 

Through  the  seeding  grass 

And  the  tall  corn. 

THE   WHITE   PEACOCK 

HERE  where  the  sunlight 

Floodeth  the  garden, 

Where  the  pomegranate 

Reareth  its  glory 

Of  gorgeous  blossom  ; 

Where  the  oleanders 

Dream  through  the  noontides  ; 

And,  like  surf  o'  the  sea 

Round  cliffs  of  basalt, 

The  thick  magnolias 

In  billowy  masses 

Front  the  sombre  green  of  the  ilexes : 

Here  where  the  heat  lies 

Pale  blue  in  the  hollows, 

Where  blue  are  the  shadows 

On  the  fronds  of  the  cactus, 

Where  pale  blue  the  gleaming 

Of  fir  and  cypress, 

With  the  cones  upon  them 

Amber  or  glowing 

With  virgin  gold  : 

Here  where  the  honey-flower 

Makes  the  heat  fragrant, 

As  though  from  the  gardens 

Of  Gulistan, 

Where  the  bulbul  singeth 

Though  a  mist  of  roses, 

A  breath  were  borne  : 

Here  where  the  dream-flowers, 

The  cream-white  poppies 


OSCAR   WILDE 


549 


Silently  waver, 

And  where  the  Scirocco, 

Faint  in  the  hollows, 

Foldeth  his  soft  white  wings  in  the  sun- 
light, 

And  lieth  sleeping 

Deep  in  the  heart  of 

A  sea  of  white  violets  : 

Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this 
beauty 

Moveth  in  silence,  and  dreamlike,  and 
slowly, 

White  as  a  snow-drift  in  mountain  valleys 

When  softly  upon  it  the  gold  light  lingers  : 

White  as  the  foam  o'  the  sea  that  is  driven 

O'er  billows  of  azure  agleam  with  sun- 
yellow  : 

Cream-white  and  soft  as  the  breasts  of  a 
girl, 

Moves  the  White  Peacock,  as  though 
through  the  noon-tide 

A  dream  of  the  moonlight  were  real  for  a 
moment. 

Dim  on  the  beautiful  fan  that  he  spreadeth, 

Foldeth  and  spreadeth  abroad  in  the  sun- 
light, 

Dim  on  the  cream-white  are  blue  adum- 
brations, 

Shadows  so  pale  in  their  delicate  blueness 

That  visions  they  seem  as  of  vanishing  vio- 
lets, 

The  fragrant  white  violets  veined  with 
azure, 

?ale,  pale  as  the  breath  of  blue  smoke  in 
far  woodlands. 


Here,  as  the  breath,  as  the  soul  of  this 

beauty, 
White  as  a  cloud  through  the  heats  of  the 

noontide 
Moves  the  White  Peacock. 

SONG 

LOVE  in  my  heart :  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Love  is  my  tyrant,  Love  is  supreme. 
What  if  he  passeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  ine  ! 
Love  is  a  phantom,  and  Life  is  a  dream  ! 

What  if  he  changeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Oh,  can  the  waters  be  void  of  the  wind  ? 
What  if  he  weudeth  afar  and  apart  from 

me, 
What  if  he  leave  me  to  perish  behind  ? 

What  if  he  passetb,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

A  flame  i'  the  dusk,  a  breath  of  Desire  ? 
Nay,  my  sweet  Love  is  the  heart  and  the 

soul  of  me, 
And  I  am  the  innermost  heart  of  his  fire  ! 

Love  in  my  heart :  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 

Love  is  my  tyrant,  Love  is  supreme. 
What  if  he  passeth,  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart 

of  me  ! 
Love  is  a  phantom,  and  Life  is  a  dream ! 


AVE    IMPERATRIX 

SET  in  this  stormy  Northern  sea, 

Queen  of  these  restless  fields  of  tide, 

England  !  what  shall  men  say  of  thee, 
Before  whose  feet  the  worlds  divide  ? 

The  earth,  a  brittle  globe  of  glass, 
Lies  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand, 

And  through  its  heart  of  crystal  pass, 
Like  shadows  through  a  twilight  land, 

The  spears  of  crimson-suited  war, 
The  long  white-crested  waves  of  fight, 


And  all  the  deadly  fires  which  are 
The  torches  of  the  lords  of  Night. 

The  yellow  leopards,  strained  and  lean, 
The    treacherous     Russian    knows     so 

well, 

With  gaping  blackened  jaws  are  seen 
To    leap    through    hail    of    screaming 
shell. 

The  strong  sea-lion  of  England's  wars 
Hath  left  his  sapphire  cave  of  sea, 

To  battle  with  the  storm  that  mars 
The  star  of  England's  chivalry. 


55° 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


The  brazen-throated  clarion  blows 
Across  the  Pathan's  reedy  fen, 

And  the  high  steeps  of  Indian  snows 
Shake  to  the  tread  of  armed  men. 

And  many  an  Afghan  chief,  who  lies 
Beneath  his  cool  pomegranate-trees, 

Clutches  his  sword  in  fierce  surmise 
When  on  the  mountain-side  he  sees 

The  fleet-foot  Marri  scout,  who  comes 
To  tell  how  he  hath  heard  afar 

The  measured  roll  of  English  drums 
Beat  at  the  gates  of  Kandahar. 

For  southern  wind  and  east  wind  meet 
Where,  girt  and  crowned  by  sword  and 
fire, 

England  with  bare  and  bloody  feet 
Climbs  the  steep  road  of  wide  empire. 

O  lonely  Himalayan  height, 

Gray  pillar  of  the  Indian  sky, 
Where  saw'st  thou  last  in  clanging  fight 

Our  winged  dogs  of  Victory  ? 

The  almond  groves  of  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  where  red  lilies  blow, 

And  Oxus,  by  whose  yellow  sand 

The  grave  white-turbaned  merchants  go  ; 

And  on  from  thence  to  Ispahan, 

The  gilded  garden  of  the  sun, 
Whence  the  long  dusty  caravan 

Brings  cedar  and  vermilion  ; 

And  that  dread  city  of  Cabool 

Set  at  the  mountain's  scarped  feet, 

Whose  marble  tanks  are  ever  full 
With  water  for  the  noonday  heat, 

Where  through  the  narrow  straight  Bazaar 

A  little  maid  Circassian 
Is  led,  a  present  from  the  Czar 

Unto  some  old  and  bearded  khan,  — 

Here  have  our  wild  war-eagles  flown, 
And  flapped  wide  wings  in  fiery  fight  ; 

But  the  sad  dove,  that  sits  alone 
In  England  —  she  hath  no  delight. 

In  vain  the  laughing  girl  will  lean 
To  greet  her  love  with  love-lit  eyes  : 

Down  in  some  treacherous  black  ravine, 
Clutching  his  flag,  the  dead  boy  lies. 


And  many  a  moon  and  sun  will  see 
The  lingering  wistful  children  wait 

To  climb  upon  their  father's  knee  ; 
And  in  each  house  made  desolate 

Pale  women  who  have  lost  their  lord 
Will  kiss  the  relics  of  the  slain  — 

Some  tarnished  epaulette  —  some  sword  — • 
Poor  toys  to  soothe  such  anguished  pain. 

For  not  in  quiet  English  fields 

Are  these,  our  brothers,  lain  to  rest, 

Where  we  might  deck  their  broken  shields 
With  all  the  flowers  the  dead  love  best. 

For  some  are  by  the  Delhi  walls, 
And  many  in  the  Afghan  land, 

And  many  where  the  Ganges  falls 

Through  seven  mouths  of  shifting  sand. 

And  some  in  Russian  waters  lie, 
And  others  in  the  seas  which  are 

The  portals  to  the  East,  or  by 

The  wind-swept  heights  of  Trafalgar. 

O  wandering  graves  !     O  restless  sleep  ! 

O  silence  of  the  sunless  day  ! 
O  still  ravine  !     O  stormy  deep  ! 

Give  up  your  prey  !     Give  up  your  prey  ! 

And  those  whose  wounds  are  never  healed, 
Whose  weary  race  is  never  won, 

O  Cromwell's  England  !  must  thou  yield 
For  every  inch  of  ground  a  son  ? 

Go  !  crown  with  thorns  thy  gold-crowned 
head, 

Change  thy  glad  song  to  song  of  pain  ; 
Wind  and  wild  wave  have  got  thy  dead, 

And  will  not  yield  them  back  again. 

Wave  and  wild  wind  and  foreign  shore 
Possess  the  flower  of  English  land  —    ^ 

Lips  that  thy  lips  shall  kiss  no  more, 
Hands  that  shall  never  clasp  thy  hand. 

What  profit  now  that  we  have  bound 
The  whole  round  world  with  nets  of  gold, 

If  hidden  in  our  heart  is  found 
The  care  that  groweth  never  old  ? 

What  profit  that  our  galleys  ride, 
Pine-forest  like,  on  every  main  ? 

Ruin  and  wreck  are  at  our  side, 
Grim  warders  of  the  House  of  pain. 


DOUGLAS   B.   W.    SLADEN 


Where    are    the    brave,    the    strong,   the 
fleet? 

Where  is  our  English  chivalry  ? 
Wild  grasses  are  their  burial-sheet, 

And  sobbing  waves  their  threnody. 

O  loved  ones  lying  far  away, 

What  word  of  love  can  dead  lips  send  ? 
O  wasted  dust !     O  senseless  clay  ! 

Is  this  the  end  ?  is  this  the  end  ? 


Peace,  peace  !  we  wrong  the  noble  dead 
To  vex  their  solemn  slumber  so  ; 

Though  childless,  and  with  thorn-crowned 

head, 
Up  the  steep  road  must  England  go, 

Yet  when  this  fiery  web  is  spun, 

Her  watchmen  shall  descry  from  far 

The  young  Republic  like  a  sun 

Rise  from  these  crimson  seas  of  war. 


A  CHRISTMAS  LETTER  FROM 
AUSTRALIA 

'T  IS  Christmas,  and  the  North  wind  blows  ; 
't  was  two  years  yesterday 

Since  from  the  Lusitania's  bows  I  looked 
o'er  Table  Bay, 

A  tripper  round  the  narrow  world,  a  pil- 
grim of  the  main, 

Expecting  when  her  sails  unfurled  to  start 
for  home  again. 

'Tis  Christmas,  and  the  North  wind  blows  ; 

to-day  our  hearts  are  one, 
Though   you  are  'mid   the  English   snows 

and  I  in  Austral  sun  ; 
You,   when  you  hear  the  Northern  blast, 

pile  high  a  mightier  fire, 
Our  ladies  cower  until  it 's  past  in  lawn  and 

lace  attire. 

I  fancy  I  can  picture  you  upon  this  Christ- 
mas night, 

Just  sitting  as  you  used  to  do,  the  laughter 
at  its  height  : 

And  then  a  sudden,  silent  pause  intruding 
on  your  glee, 

And  kind  eyes  glistening  because  you 
chanced  to  think  of  me. 

This  morning  when  I  woke  and  knew  't  was 

Christmas  come  again, 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  view  white  rime 

upon  the  pane, 
And  hear  the  ringing  of  the  wheels  upon 

the  frosty  ground, 
And  see  the  drip  that  downward  steals  in 

icy  casket  bound. 


I  daresay  you  '11  be  on  the  lake,  or  sliding 

on  the  snow, 
And  breathing  on  your  hands  to  make  the 

circulation  flow, 
Nestling  your  nose  among  the  furs  of  which 

your  boa 's  made,  — 
The  Fahrenheit  here  registers  a  hundred  in 

the  shade. 

It  is  not  quite  a  Christmas  here  with  this 

unclouded  sky, 
This  pure  transparent  atmosphere,  this  sun 

midheaven-high  ; 
To  see  the  rose  upon  the  bush,  young  leaves 

upon  the  trees, 
And  hear  the  forest's  summer  hush  or  the 

low  hum  of  bees. 

But   cold   winds  bring  not  Christmastide, 

nor  budding  roses  June, 
And  when  it 's  night  upon  your  side  we  're 

basking  in  the  noon. 
Kind   hearts  make   Christmas  —  June  can 

bring  blue  sky  or  clouds  above  ; 
The   only  universal   spring   is   that  which 

comes  of  love. 

And  so  it 's  Christmas  in  the  South  as  01 

the  North-Sea  coasts, 
Though  we  are  starved  with  summer-drouth 

and  you  with  winter  frosts. 
And  we  shall  have  our  roast  beef  here,  and 

think  of  you  the  while, 
Though  all  the  watery  hemisphere  cuts  off 

the  mother  isle. 

Feel  sure  that  we  shall  think  of  you,  we 
who  have  wandered  forth, 


5S2 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


And  many  a  million  thoughts  will  go  to-day 

from  south  to  north  ; 
Old  heads  will  muse  on  churches  old,  where 

bells  will  ring  to-day  — 
The  very   bells,   perchance,    which   tolled 

their  fathers  to  the  clay. 

And  now,  good-night !  and  I  shall  dream 
that  I  am  with  you  all, 

Watching  the  ruddy  embers  gleam  athwart 
the  panelled  hall ; 

Nor  care  I  if  I  dream  or  not,  though  sev- 
ered by  the  foam, 

My  heart  is  always  in  the  spot  which  was 
my  childhood's  home. 


SUNSET  ON    THE    CUNIMBLA 
VALLEY,  BLUE  MOUNTAINS 

I  SAT  upon  a  windy  mountain  height, 

On  a  huge  rock  outstanding  from  the 
rest  ; 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  a  neighboring 
crest, 

Leaving  chill  shade  ;  but  looking  down,  my 
sight 

Beheld  the  vale  still  bathed  in  his  warm 
light 

And  of  the  perfect  peace  of  eve  pos- 
sessed, 

No  wave  upon  the  forest  on  its  breast 

And  all  its  park-like  glades  with  sunshine 
bright. 

It  put  me  into  mind  of  the  old  age 

Of  one  who  leaves  ambition's  rocks  and 
peaks 

To  those  inhabited  by  nobler  rage, 

And  still  existence  in  life's  valleys  seeks  ; 

His  is  the  peaceful  eve  ;  but  then  one 
hour 

Of  mountain  life  is  worthy  his  twenty- 
four. 


THE  TROPICS 

LOVE  we  the  warmth  and  light  of  tropic 
lands, 

The  strange  bright  fruit,  the  feathery  fan- 
spread  leaves, 

The  glowing  mornings  and  the  mellow 
eves, 

The  strange  shells  scattered  on  the  golden 
sands, 


The  curious  handiwork  of  Eastern  hands, 
The   little   carts   ambled   by  humpbacked 

beeves, 
The  narrow  outrigged  native  boat  which 

cleaves, 
Unscathed,   the    surf    outside     the    coral 

strands. 

Love  we  the  blaze  of  color,  the  rich  red 
Of  broad  tiled-roof  and  turban,  the  bright 

green 
Of    plantain-frond    and    paddy-field,   nor 

dread 

The  fierceness  of  the  noon.    The  sky  serene, 
The  chill-less  air,  quaint  sights,  and  tropic 

trees, 
Seem  like  a  dream  fulfilled  of  lotus-ease. 


FROM   THE   DRAMA   OF 
"CHARLES  II" 

REFRAIN 

COME  and  kiss  me,  mistress  Beauty, 
I  will  give  you  all  that 's  due  t'  ye. 

I  will  taste  your  rosebud  lips 
Daintily  as  the  bee  sips  ; 
At  your  bonny  eyes  I  '11  look 
Like  a  scholar  at  his  book  : 

On  my  bosom  you  shall  rest, 
Like  a  robin  on  her  nest : 
Round  my  body  you  shall  twine, 
I  '11  be  elm,  and  you  be  vine  : 

In  a  bumper  of  your  breath 

I  would  drain  a  draught  of  death  : 

In  the  tangles  of  your  hair 

I  'd  be  hanged  and  never  care. 

Then  come  kiss  me,  mistress  Beauty, 
I  will  give  you  all  that 's  due  t'  ye. 


SALOPIA  INHOSPITALIS 

TOUCH  not  that  maid  : 
She  is  a  flower,  and  changeth  but  to  fade. 
Fragrant  is  she,  and  fair 
As  any  shape  that  haunts  this  lower  air  ; 
In  form  as  graceful  and  as  free 
As  honeysuckles  and  the  lilies  be  ; 
Insensible,  and  shrinking  from  caress 
As    flowers,  which   you    peril  when  you 
press. 


HENRY   CHARLES   BEECHING 


553 


Gaze  not  on  her  ; 

She  is  a  being  of  another  sphere. 

Brilliant  is  she,  and  bright 

As  any  star  illuminate  at  night  ; 

Of  stuff  as  sober  and  as  fine 

As  hers  whose  glory  through  the  moon  doth 

shine  ; 

Uuliker  to  come  down  to  this  thy  love 
Than  any  orb  that 's  fixed  for  aye  above. 


Heed  her  no  more  : 

She  is  a  gem  whose  heart  thou  canst  not 

bore  ; 

Glistering  is  she,  and  grand 
As  any  stone  that  decks  a  monarch's  hand  ; 
In  face  as  free  from  flaw  or  stain 
As  diamond  from  mine,  or  pearl  from  main  : 
But  she  thy  fire  and  fever  never  felt, 
For  adamant  can  neither  waste  nor  melt. 


A   SUMMER   DAY 

GREEN  leaves  panting  for  joy   with   the 

great  wind  rushing  through  ; 
A  burst  of  the  sun  from   cloud  and  a 

sparkle  on  valley  and  hill, 
Gold  on  the  corn,  and  red  on  the  poppy, 

and  on  the  rill 

Silver,  and  over  all  white  clouds  afloat  in 
the  blue. 

Swallows  that  dart,  a  lark  unseen,  innunie- 

rous  song 
Chirruped    and    twittered,   a  lowing   of 

cows  in  the  meadow  grass, 
Murmuring   gnats,  and    bees  that  suck 

their  honey  and  pass  : 

God  is  alive,  and  at  work  in  the  world  :  — 
we  did  it  wrong. 

Human   eyes,   and    human   hands,  and   a 

human  face 
Darkly  beheld   before   in  a  vision,  not 

understood, 

Po  I  at  last  begin  to  feel  as  I  stand  and  gaze 
Why  God  waited  for   this,  then  called 
the  world  very  good  ? 

TO    MY   TOTEM 

"  Su6  tegmine  fagi.n 

THY  name  of  old  was  great : 

What  though  sour  critics  teach 
"  The  beech  by  the  Scsean  gate 

Was  not  indeed  a  beech," 
That  sweet  Theocritus 

The  ilex  loved,  not  thee  ?  — 
These  are  made  glorious 

Through  thy  name,  glorious  tree. 


And  sure  't  was  'neath  thy  shade 

Tityrus  oft  did  use 
(The  while  his  oxen  strayed) 

To  meditate  the  Muse. 
To  thee  't  was  Corydon 

(Sad  shepherd)  did  lament 
Vain  hopes,  and  violets  wan 

To  fair  Alexis  sent. 

Our  singers  loved  thee,  too  : 

In  Chaucer's  liquid  verse 
Are  set  thy  praises  due 

The  ages  but  rehearse  ; 
Though  later  poets  bring 

Their  homage  still,  and  I 
The  least  of  those  who  sing 

Thy  name  would  magnify. 

For  long  ago  my  sires, 

Ere  Hengist  crossed  the  sea 
To  map  our  English  shires, 

Gave  up  their  heart  to  thee, 
And  vowed  if  thou  wouldst  keep 

Their  lives  from  fire  and  foe, 
Thou  too  shouldst  never  weep 

The  axe's  deadly  blow. 

Thou  hast  my  heart  to-day  : 

Whether  in  June  I  sit 
And  watch  the  leaves  at  play, 

The  flickering  shadows  flit ; 
Or  whether,  when  leaves  fall 

And  red  the  autumn  mould, 
I  pace  the  woodland  hall 

Thy  stately  trunks  uphold. 

Thou  hast  my  heart,  and  here 
In  scattered  fruit  I  see 

An  emblem  true  and  clear 

Of  what  my  heart  must  be  :  — 


554 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Hard  sheath  and  scanty  fare, 

Yet  forced  on  every  side 
To  break  apart  and  share 

Small  gifts  it  fain  would  hide. 

KNOWLEDGE  AFTER   DEATH 

Siccine  separat  amara  mors  ? 

Is  death  so  bitter  ?     Can  it  shut  us  fast 

Off  from  ourselves,  that  future  from  this 

¥ist, 
ime  compels  us  through  those  nar- 

now  doors  ? 
Must  we,  supplanted  by  ourselves  in  the 

course, 
Changelings,  become  as  they  who  know  at 

last 

A  river's  secret,  never  having  cast 
One  guess,  or  known  one  doubt,  about  its 

source  ? 

Is  it  so  bitter  ?     Does  not  knowledge  here 
Forget  her  gradual  growth,  and  how  each 

day 
Seals  up  the  sum  of  each  world-conscious 

soul  ? 
So,  though  our  ghosts  forget  us,  waste   no 

tear  ; 
We  being   ourselves   would   gladly  be  as 

they, 
And  we  being  they  are  still  ourselves  made 

whole. 


PRAYERS 

i 
GOD  who  created  me 

Nimble  and  light  of  limb, 
In  three  elements  free, 

To  run,  to  ride,  to  swim  : 
Not  when  the  sense  is  dim, 

But  now  from  the  heart  of  joy, 
I  would  remember  Him  : 

Take  the  thanks  of  a  boy. 

Jesu,  King  and  Lord, 

Whose  are  my  foes  to  fight, 
Gird  me  with  thy  sword 

Swift,  and  sharp,  and  bright. 
Thee  would  I  serve  if  I  might, 

And  conquer  if  I  can, 
From  day-dawn  till  night  : 

Take  the  strength  of  a  man. 

Ill 

Spirit  of  Love  and  Truth, 

Breathing  in  grosser  clay, 
The  light  and  flame  of  youth, 

Delight  of  men  in  the  fray, 
Wisdom  in  strength's  decay  ; 

From  pain,  strife,  wrong,  to  be  free 
This  best  gift  I  pray  : 

Take  my  spirit  to  Thee. 


3lo!)n  f&ifttam  S^acfcart 


AN   ETRUSCAN   RING 


WHERE,  girt  with  orchard  and  with  olive- 
yard, 

The  white  hill-fortress  glimmers  on  the 
hill, 

Day  after  day  an  ancient  goldsmith's 
skill 

Guided  the  copper  graver,  tempered  hard 

By  some  lost  secret,  while  he  shaped  the 
sard 

Slowly  to  beauty,  and  his  tiny  drill, 

Edged  with  corundum,  ground  its  way 
until 

The  gem  lay  perfect  for  the  ring  to 
guard. 


Then  seeing  the  stone  complete  to  his  de- 
sire, 

With  mystic  imagery  carven  thus,      rv 
And  dark  Egyptian  symbols  fabulous, 
He   drew  through  it  the  delicate   golden 

wire, 
And  bent  the  fastening  ;  and  the  Etrurian 

sun 
Sank  behind  Ilva,  and  the  work  was  done. 

II 

What  dark-haired  daughter  of  a  Lucumo 
Bore    on    her    slim  white    finger   to    the 

grave 
This    the   first   gift   her   Tyrrhene    lover 

gave, 
Those  five-and-twenty  centuries  ago  ? 


J.   B.   B.   NICHOLS 


555 


What    shadowy   dreams   might    haunt    it, 

lying  low 
So  long,  while  kings  and  armies,  wave  on 

wave, 

Above  the  rock-tomb's  buried  architrave 
Went   million  -  footed    trampling    to   and 

fro? 


Who  knows  ?  but  well  it  is  so  frail  a  thing, 
Unharm'd  by  conquering  Time's  supremacy, 
Still  should  be  fair,  though  scarce  less  old 

than  Rome. 

Now  once  again  at  rest  from  wandering 
Across  the  high  Alps  and  the  dreadful  sea, 
In  utmost  England  let  it  find  a  home. 


LINES   BY   A   PERSON   OF 
QUALITY 

THE  loves  that  doubted,  the  loves  that  dis- 
sembled, 

That  still  mistrusted  themselves  and  trem- 
bled, 
That  held  back  their  hands  and  would 

not  touch  ; 

Who  strained  sad  eyes  to  look  more  nearly, 
And  saw  too  curiously  and  clearly 
What  others  blindly  clutch  ; 

To  whom  their  passion  seemed  only  seeming, 
Who  dozed  and  dreamed  they  were  only 

dreaming, 

And  fell  in  a  dusk  of  dreams  on  sleep  ; 
When  dreams  and  darkness  are  rent  asun- 
der, 
And  morn  makes  mock  of  their  doubts  and 

wonder, 
What  should  they  do  but  weep  ? 

A   PASTORAL 

MY  love  and  I  among  the  mountains  strayed 
When  heaven  and  earth  in  summer  heat 
were  still, 

Aware  anon  that  at  our  feet  were  laid 
Within  a  sunny  hollow  of  the  hill 

A  long-haired  shepherd-lover  and  a  maid. 

'They  saw  nor  heard  us,  who  a  space  above, 
With  hands  clasped  close  as  hers  were 
clasped  in  his, 


Marked  how   the  gentle   golden   sunlight 

strove 
To  play  about  their  leaf-crowned  curls, 

and  kiss 
Their  burnished  slender  limbs,  half-bared 

to  his  love. 

But  grave  or  pensive  seemed  the  boy  to 

grow, 

For  while  upon  the  grass  unfingered  lay 
The  slim  twin-pipes,  he  ever  watched  with 

slow 

Dream-laden  looks  the  ridge  that  far  away 
Surmounts  the  sleeping  midsummer  with 
snow. 

These  things  we  saw  ;  moreover  we  could 

hear 
The  girl's  soft  voice  of  laughter,  grown 

more  bold 
With  the  utter  noonday  silence,  sweet  and 

clear*: 
"  Why  dost  thou  think  ?      By  thinking 

one  grows  old  ; 
Wouldst  thou  for  all  the  world  be  old,  my 

dear  ?  " 

Here  my  love  turned  to  me,  but  her  eyes  told 
Her  thought  with  smiles  before  she  spake 

a  word  ; 

And  being  quick  their  meaning  to  behold 
I   could   not  choose  but  echo  what  we 

heard : 

"  Sweet  heart,  wouldst  thou   for  all   the 
world  be  old  ?  " 


556 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


(A.   MARY   F.    ROBINSON) 


DAWN-ANGELS 

ALL  night  I  watched  awake  for  morning, 
At  last  the  East  grew  all  aflame, 

The  birds  for  welcome  sang,  or  warning, 
And  with  their  singing  morning  came. 

Along  the  gold-green  heavens  drifted 
Pale  wandering  souls  that  shun  the  light, 

Whose  cloudy  pinions,  torn  and  rifted, 
Had  beat  the  bars  of  Heaven  all  night. 

These  clustered  round  the  moon,  but  higher 
A  troop  of  shining  spirits  went, 

Who  were  not  made  of  wind  or  fire, 
But  some  divine  dream-element. 

Some  held  the  Light,  while  those  remaining 
Shook  out  their  harvest-colored  wings, 

A  faint  unusual  music  raining, 

(Whose   sound  was   Light)    on   earthly 
things. 

They  sang,  and  as  a  mighty  river 
Their  voices  washed  the  night  away, 

From  East  to  West  ran  one  white  shiver, 
And  waxen  strong  their  song  was  Day. 

COCKAYNE   COUNTRY 

NEAR  where  yonder  evening  star 

Makes  a  glory  in  the  air, 
Lies  a  land  dream-found  and  far 

Where  it  is  light  alway. 
There  those  lovely  ghosts  repair 

Who  in  Sleep's  enchantment  are, 
In  Cockayne  dwell  all  things  fair. 

(But  it  is  far  away.) 

Through  the  gates  —  a  goodly  sight  — 

Troops  of  men  and  maidens  come, 
There  shut  out  from  Heaven  at  night 

Belated  angels  stray  ; 
Down  those  wide-arched  groves  they  roam 

Through  a  land  of  great  delight, 
Dreaming  they  are  safe  at  home. 

(But  it  is  far  away.) 

There  the  leaves  of  all  the  trees 
Written  are  with  a  running  rhyme, 

There  all  poets  live  at  peace, 
And  lovers  are  true,  they  say. 


Earth  in  that  unwintered  clime 

Like  a  star  incarnate  sees 
The  glory  of  her  future  time. 

(But  it  is  far  away.) 

Hard  to  find  as  it  is  far  ! 

Dark  nights  shroud  its  brilliance  rare, 
Crouching  round  the  cloudy  bar 

Under  the  wings  of  day. 
But  if  thither  ye  will  fare, 

Love  and  Death  the  pilots  are,  — 
Might  either  one  convey  me  there  ! 

(But  it  is  far  away.) 


CELIA'S    HOME-COMING 

MAIDENS,  kilt  your  skirts  and  go 
Down  the  stormy  garden-ways, 

Pluck  the  last  sweet  pinks  that  blow, 
Gather  roses,  gather  bays, 

Since  our  Celia  comes  to-day 

That  has  been  too  long  away. 

Crowd  her  chamber  with  your  sweets- 
Not  a  flower  but  grows  for  her  ! 

Make  her  bed  with  linen  sheets 
That  have  lain  in  lavender  ; 

Light  a  fire  before  she  come 

Lest  she  find  us  chill  at  home. 

Ah,  what  joy  when  Celia  stands 
By  the  leaping  blaze  at  last, 

Stooping  down  to  warm  her1  hands 
All  benumbed  with  the  blast, 

While  we  hide  her  cloak  away 

To  assure  us  she  shall  stay. 

Cyder  bring  and  cowslip  wine, 
Fruits  and  flavors  from  the  East, 

Pears  and  pippins  too,  and  fine 
Saffron  loaves  to  make  a  feast '. 

China  dishes,  silver  cups, 

For  the  board  where  Celia  sups  ! 

Then,  when  all  the  feasting 's  done, 
She  shall  draw  us  round  the  blaze, 

Laugh,  and  tell  us  every  one 
Of  her  far  triumphant  days  — 

Celia,  out  of  doors  a  star, 

By  the  hearth  a  holier  Lar  t 


MRS.    DARMESTETER 


557 


FROM   "TUSCAN    CYPRESS" 

(RISPETTI) 

i 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  I  am  quite  forgot, 
What  care  I  if  my  spirit  lives  or  dies  ? 

To  walk  with  angels  in  a  grassy  plot, 
And  pluck  the  lilies  grown  in  Paradise  ? 

Ah,  no  —  the  heaven  of  all  my  heart  has 
been 

To  hear  your  voice  and  catch  the  sighs  be- 
tween. 

Ah,  no  —  the  better  heaven  I  fain  would 
give, 

But  in  a  cranny  of  your  soul  to  live. 


Ah  me,  you  well  might  wait  a  little  while, 
And  not  forget  me,  Sweet,  until  I  die  ! 

I  had  a  home,  a  little  distant  isle, 

With  shadowy  trees  and  tender  misty  sky. 

I  had  a  home  !     It  was  less  dear  than  thou, 
And  I  forgot,  as  you  forget  me  now. 
I  had  a  home,  more  dear  than  I  could  tell, 
And  I  forgot,  but  now  remember  well. 

Ill 

Love  me  to-day  and  think  not  on  to-morrow, 
Come,  take  my  hands,  and  lead  me  out 
of  doors, 

There  in  the  fields  let  us  forget  our  sorrow, 
Talking  of  Venice  and  Ionian  shores  ;  — 

Talking  of  all  the  seas  innumerable 
Where  we  will  sail  and  sing  when  I  am  well ; 
Talking  of  Indian  roses  gold  and  red, 
Which  we  will  plait  in  wreaths  —  when  I 
am  dead. 

ROSA   ROSARUM 

GIVE  .ne,  O  friend,  the  secret  of  thy  heart 

Safe  in  my  breast  to  hide, 
So  that  the  leagues  which  keep  our  lives 
apart 

May  not  our  souls  divide. 

Give  me  the  secret  of  thy  life  to  lay 

Asleep  within  my  own, 
Nor  dream  that  it  shall  mock  thee  any  day 

By  any  sign  or  tone. 


Nay,  as  in  walking  through  some  convent- 
close, 

Passing  beside  a  well, 
Oft  have  we  thrown  a  red   and   scented 

rose 
To  watch  it  as  it  fell  ; 

Knowing  that  never  more  the  rose  shall 
rise 

To  shame  us,  being  dead  ; 
Watching  it  spin  and  dwindle  till  it  lies 

At  rest,  a  speck  of  red  — 

Thus,   I   beseech    thee,   down    the    silent 
deep 

And  darkness  of  my  heart, 
Cast  thou  a  rose  ;  give  me  a  rose  to  keep, 

My  friend,  before  we  part. 

For,   as   thou   passest   down   thy   garden- 
ways, 

Many  a  blossom  there 
Groweth  for  thee  :  lilies  and  laden  bays, 

And  rose  and  lavender. 

But  down  the  darkling  well  one  only  rose 

In  all  the  year  is  shed  ; 
And    o'er   that   chill    and   secret   wave  it 
throws 

A  sudden  dawn  of  red. 


DARWINISM 

WHEN  first  the  unflowering  Fern-forest 
Shadowed  the  dim  lagoons  of  old, 

A  vague  unconscious  long  unrest 

Swayed  the  great  fronds  of   green  and 
gold. 

Until  the  flexible  stems  grew  rude, 

The  fronds  began  to  branch  and  bower, 

And  lo  !  upon  the  unblossoming  wood 
There  breaks  a  dawn  of  apple-flower 

Then  on  the  fruitful  Forest-boughs 

For  ages  long  the  unquiet  ape 
Swung  happy  in  his  airy  house 

And  plucked  the  apple  and  sucked  the 
grape. 

Until  in  him  at  length  there  stirred 
The  old,  unchanged,  remote  distress, 

That  pierced  his  world  of  wind  and  bird 
With  some  divine  unhappiness. 


558 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Not  Love,  nor  the  wild  fruits  he  sought  ; 

Nor  the  fierce  battles  of  his  clan 
Could  still  the  unborn  and  aching  thought 

Until  the  brute  became  the  man. 

Long  since.  .  .  .  And  now  the  same  unrest 
Goads  to  the  same  invisible  goal, 

Till  some  new  gift,  undreamed,  unguessed, 
End  the  new  travail  of  the  soul. 


A   BALLAD   OF   ORLEANS 
1429 

THE  fray  began  at  the  middle-gate, 

Between  the  night  and  the  day  ; 
Before  the  matin  bell  was  rung 

The  foe  was  far  away. 
There  was  no  knight  in  the  land  of  France 

Could  gar  that  foe  to  flee, 
Till  up  there  rose  a  young  maiden, 

And  drove  them  to  the  sea. 

Sixty  forts  around  Orleans  town, 

And  sixty  forts  of  stone  ! 
Sixty  forts  at  our  gates  last  night  — 

To-day  there  is  not  one  ! 

Talbot,  Suffolk,  and  Pole  are  fled 
Beyond  the  Loire,  in  fear  — 


Many  a  captain  who  would  not  drink, 
Hath  drunken  deeply  there  — 

Many  a  captain  is  fallen  and  drowned, 
And  many  a  knight  is  dead, 

And  many  die  in  the  misty  dawn 
While  forts  are  burning  red. 

The  blood  ran  off  our  spears  all  night 

As  the  rain  runs  off  the  roofs  — 
God  rest  their  souls  that  fell  i'  the  fight 

Among  our  horses'  hoofs  ! 
They  came  to  rob  us  of  our  own 

With  sword  and  spear  and  lance, 
They    fell    and    clutched    the    stubborn 
earth, 

And  bit  the  dust  of  France  1 

We  fought  across  the  moonless  dark 

Against  their  unseen  hands  — 
A  knight  came  out  of  Paradise 

And  fought  among  our  bands. 
Fight  on,  O  maiden  knight  of  God, 

Fight  on  and  do  not  tire  — 
For  lo  !  the  misty  break  o'  the  day 

Sees  all  their  forts  on  fire  ! 

Sixty  forts  around  Orleans  town, 

And  sixty  forts  of  stone  I 
Sixty  forts  at  our  gates  last  night  — 

To-day  there  is  not  one  ! 


SDatoiti^on 


HARVEST-HOME   SONG 

THE  frost  will  bite  us  soon  ; 
His  tooth  is  on  the  leaves  : 
Beneath  the  golden  moon 

We  bear  the  golden  sheaves  : 
We  care  not  for  the  winter's  spite, 
We  keep  our  Harvest-home  to-night. 
Hurrah  for  the  English  yeoman  ! 

Fill  full,  fill  the  cup  ! 
Hurrah  !  he  yields  to  no  man  ! 
Drink  deep  ;  drink  it  up  ! 

The  pleasure  of  a  king 

Is  tasteless  to  the  mirth 
Of  peasants  when  they  bring 

The  harvest  of  the  earth. 
With  pipe  and  tabor  hither  roam 
All  ye  who  love  our  Harvest-home. 


The  thresher  with  his  flail, 

The  shepherd  with  his  crook, 
The  milkmaid  with  her  pail, 

The  reaper  with  his  hook  — 
To-night  the  dullest  blooded  clods 
Are  kings  and  queens,  are  demigods. 
Hurrah  for  the  English  yeoman  ! 

Fill  full  ;  fill  the  cup  ! 
Hurrah  !  he  yields  to  no  man  ! 
Drink  deep  ;  drink  it  up  ! 


A   BALLAD    OF   HEAVEN 

HE  wrought  at  one  great  work  for  years  ; 

The  world  passed  by  with  lofty  look  : 
Sometimes    his   eyes    were    dashed   with 
tears ; 

Sometimes  his  lips  with  laughter  shook. 


JOHN    DAVIDSON 


559 


His  wife  and  child  went  clothed  in  rags, 
And  in  a  windy  garret  starved  : 

He  trod  his  measures  on  the  flags, 

And  high  on  heaven  his  music  carved. 

Wistful  he  grew,  but  never  feared  ; 

For  always  on  the  midnight  skies 
His  rich  orchestral  score  appeared 

In  stars  and  zones  and  galaxies. 

He  sought  to  copy  down  his  score  : 
The  moonlight  was  his  lamp  :  he  said, 

"  Listen,  my  love  ; "  but  on  the  floor 
His  wife  and  child  were  lying  dead. 

Her  hollow  eyes  were  open  wide  ; 

He  deemed  she  heard  with  special  zest : 
Her  death's-head  infant  coldly  eyed 

The  desert  of  her  shrunken  breast. 

"  Listen,  my  love  :  my  work  is  done  ; 

I  tremble  as  I  touch  the  page 
To  sign  the  sentence  of  the  sun 

And  crown  the  great  eternal  age. 

"  The  slow  adagio  begins  ; 

The  winding-sheets  are  ravelled  out 
That  swathe  the  minds  of  men,  the  sins 

That  wrap  their  rotting  souls  about. 

"  The  dead  are  heralded  along  ; 

With  silver  trumps  and  golden  drums, 
And  flutes  and  oboes,  keen  and  strong, 

My  brave  andante  singing  comes. 

"  Then  like  a  python's  sumptuous  dress 
The  frame  of  things  is  cast  away, 

And  out  of  time's  obscure  distress 
The  thundering  scherzo  crashes  Day. 

"  For  three  great  orchestras  I  hope 
My  mighty  music  shall  be  scored  : 

On  three  high  hills  they  shall  have  scope, 
With  heaven's  vault  for  a  sounding-board. 

*  Sleep  well,  love  ;  let  your  eyelids  fall  ; 
Cover  the  child  ;  good-night,  and  if  ... 

What  ?     Speak  .  .  .  the  traitorous  end  of 

all! 

Both  .  .  .  cold  and  hungry  .  .  .  cold  and 
stiff! 

*  But  no,  God  means  us  well,  I  trust  : 

Dear  ones,  be  happy,  hope  is  nigh : 


We  are  too  young  to  fall  to  dust, 
And  too  unsatisfied  to  die." 

He  lifted  up  against  his  breast 

The  woman's  body  stark  and  wan  , 

And  to  her  withered  bosom  prest 
The  little  skin-clad  skeleton. 

"  You  see  you  are  alive,"  he  cried. 

He  rocked  them  gently  to  and  fro. 
"  No,  no,  my  love,  you  have  not  died  ; 

Nor  you,  my  little  fellow  ;  no." 

Long  in  his  arms  he  strained  his  dead 
And  crooned  an  antique  lullaby  ; 

Then  laid  them  on  the  lowly  bed, 
And  broke  down  with  a  doleful  cry. 

"The    love,    the    hope,    the    blood,    the 
brain, 

Of  her  and  me,  the  budding  life, 
And  my  great  music,  —  all  in  vain  ! 

My  unscored  work,  my  child,  my  wife  ! 

"We  drop  into  oblivion, 

And  nourish  some  suburban  sod  : 
My  work,  this  woman,  this  my  son, 

Are  now  no  more  :  there  is  no  God. 

"  The  world  's  a  dustbin  ;  we  are  due, 
And  death's  cart  waits  :  be  life  accurst !  " 

He  stumbled  down  beside  the  two, 

And,    clasping    them,    his    great    heart 
burst. 

Straightway  he  stood  at  heaven's  gate, 
Abashed  and  trembling  for  his  sin  : 

I  trow  he  had  not  long  to  wait, 
For  God  came  out  and  let  him  in. 

And  then  there  ran  a  radiant  pair, 
Ruddy  with  haste  and  eager-eyed, 

To  meet  him  first  upon  the  stair, 
His  wife  and  child  beatified. 

They  clad  him  in  a  robe  of  light, 
And  gave  him  heavenly  food  to  eat  ; 

Great  seraphs  praised  him  to  the  height, 
Archangels  sat  about  his  feet. 

God,  smiling,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
And  led  him  to  the  brink  of  heaven  : 

He  saw  where  systems  whirling  stand, 
Where  galaxies  like  snow  are  driven. 


56° 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Dead  silence  reigned  ;  a  shudder  ran 
Through  space  ;  Time  furled  his  wearied 
wings  ; 

A  slow  adagio  then  began 

Sweetly  resolving  troubled  things. 

The  dead  were  heralded  along  : 

As  if  with  .drums  and  trumps  of  flame, 

And  flutes  and  oboes  keen  and  strong, 
A  brave  andante  singing  came. 

Then  like  a  python's  sumptuous  dress 
The  frame  of  things  was  cast  away, 

And  out  of  Time's  obscure  distress 

The     conquering    scherzo    thundered 
Day. 

He  doubted  ;  but  God  said,  "  Even  so  ; 

Nothing    is    lost    that  's    wrought    with 

tears  : 
The  music  that  you  made  below 

Is  now  the  music  of  the  spheres." 


LONDON 

ATHWART  the  sky  a  lowly  sigh 

From  west  to  east  the  sweet  wind  carried; 
The  sun  stood  still  on  Primrose  Hill  ; 

His  light  in  all  the  city  tarried  ; 
The  clouds  on  viewless  columns  bloomed 
Like  smouldering  lilies  unconsumed. 

"  Oh  sweetheart,  see  !     How  shadowy, 
Of  some  occult  magician's  rearing, 

Or  swung  in  space  of  heaven's  grace 
Dissolving,  dimly  reappearing, 

Afloat  upon  ethereal  tides 

St.  Paul's  above  the  city  rides  !  " 

A  rumor  broke  through  the  thin  smoke, 
Enwreathing  abbey,  tower,  and  palace, 

The  parks,  the  squares,  the  thoroughfares, 
The  million-peopled  lanes  and  alleys, 

An  ever-muttering  prisoned  storm, 

The  heart  of  London  beating  warm. 


LOVE   AND    DEATH 

IN  the  wild  autumn  weather,  when  the  rain 

was  on  the  sea, 
And  the   boughs   sobbed   together,  Death 

came  and  spake  to  me  : 
"  Those  red  drops  of  thy  heart  I  have  come 

to  take  from  thee  ; 
As  the  storm  sheds  the  rose,  so  thy  love 

shall  broken  be," 

Said  Death  to  me. 

Then  I  stood  straight  and  fearless  while 

the  rain  was  in  the  wave, 
And  I   spake   low  and   tearless  :  "  When 

thou  hast  made  my  grave, 
Those  red  drops  from  my  heart  then  thou 

shalt  surely  have  ; 
But  the  rose  keeps  its  bloom,  as  I  my  love 

will  save 

All  for  my  grave." 

In  the  wild  autumn  weather  a  dread  sword 

slipped  from  its  sheath  ; 
While  the  boughs  sobbed  together,  I  fought 

a  fight  with  Death, 


And  I  vanquished  him  with  prayer,  and  I 
vanquished  him  by  faith  : 

Now  the    summer   air  is   sweet  with   the 
rose's  fragrant  breath 

That  conquered  Death. 

SISTER  MARY  OF  THE  LOVE  OF 
GOD 

THIS  is  the  convent  where  they  tend  the 

sick, 
Comfort    the   dying,    make     the    ailing 

strong  ; 

Covered,  you  see,  with  ivy,  very  thick  ; 
Haunt  of  the  birds,  alive  with  bloom  and 
song. 

The  happy  sick  are  smiling  in  their  beds, 
The  happy  sisters  flitting  to  and  fro  ; 

Ah,  blessings  on  the  wise  and  gentle  heads 
That  planned  this  place  a  hundred  years 
ago! 

To  build  the   walls   a  woman  crossed  the 

sea, 
Travelled  with  tender  feet  a  weary  road. 


I  '11  tell  you  now  the  little  history 
Of  Sister  Mary  of  the  Love  of  God. 

A  lovely  maiden  of  a  high  estate, 

She  danced  away  her  days  in  careless 

glee  ; 

A  bird  beside  her  window  came  and  sate, 
And  piped  and  sang,  "  The  Lord  has  need 
of  thee  !  " 

Deep  in  the  night,  when  everything  was 

still, 
The   restless  dance,  the  music's   merry 

clang, 

That  bird  would  perch  upon  the  window  sill : 
"  The  Lord  hath  need  of  thee,"  it  piped 
and  sang. 

She  rose  and  fled  her  chamber  in  affright, 
And  roused  with  eager  call  the  minstrel 

gray; 
"  The  birds  are  singing  strange  things  in 

the  night  ; 

Tune  me,  O  minstrel,  something  blythe 
and  gay  ! " 

The  minstrel  struck  his  harp  with  ready 

power  ; 

The  laughing  echoes  wakened  merrily  ; 
The  lady  turned  as  white  as  lily-flower,  — 
The  music  trilled,  "  The  Lord  has  need 
of  thee  /  " 

Her  guests  came  round  her  and  her  ball- 
room blazed, 
While  lively  footsteps  on  the  floor  did 

beat  ; 
The     lady    led     the     dance    with     looks 

amazed,  — 

"  The  Lord  doth   need  thee!"  said  the 
dancers'  feet. 


The    feast   was    spread,   and    flowed   the 

rarest  wine 
In  golden  goblets    clinking  round  the 

board  ; 
The  flashing  cups  from  hand  to  hand  did 

shine, 

And  rang  and  chimed  "  Go,  give  thee  to 
the  Lord!" 

Within  her  chamber  long  the  lady  sate, 
Then  raised  her  downcast  face,  all  pale 

and  sweet : 

"  There  is  a  beggar  lying  at  the  gate  — 
Go,  bring  him  in,  that  I  may  wash  his 
feet." 

They  looked  upon  her  robes  of  satin  sheen, 
They  looked   upon  her  eyes  so  strange 

and  glad  ; 
They  whispered,  "  She  is  not  as  she  hath 

been  ;" 

Her  damsels  wept,  "  Our  lady"  hath  gone 
mad !  " 

But  in  the  night  she  stole  away  alone. 
Then  sang  the  minstrels  many  a  mourn- 
ful rhyme, 

Till  some  forgot  her  as  one  never  known, 
And  others  said,  "  She  hath  some  heavy 
crime." 

Ah  me,  it  is  a  hundred  years  ago  !  — 
This  ivy  on  the  walls  is  thick,  you  see  ; 

The  world  would  laugh  if  I  should  tell  it  so 
Of  Sister  Mary's  little  history. 

Another  dances  in  her  shoes  to-day  ; 

One  wears  that  gem  of  hers,  another  this  ; 
But  she  is  happy  and  the  poor  are  gay, 

The  sick  are  smiling  and  the  dead  in 
bliss  I 


BALLAD  OF  A  BRIDAL 

"  OH,  fill  me  flagons  full  and  fair. 

Of  red  wine  and  of  white, 
And,  maidens  mine,  my  bower  prepare, 

It  is  my  wedding  night ! 

K  Braid  up  my  hair  with  gem  and  flower, 
And  make  me  fair  and  fine, 


The    day    has    dawned    that    brings    the 

hour 
When  my  desire  is  mine  ! " 

They  decked  her  bower  with  roses  blown, 
With  rushes  strewed  the  floor, 

And  sewed  more  jewels  on  her  gown 
Than  ever  she  wore  before. 


562 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


She  wore  two  roses  in  her  face, 

Two  jewels  in  her  e'eii  ; 
Her  hair  was  crowned  with  sunset  rays, 

Her  brows  shone  white  between. 

"'*  Tapers  at  the  bed's  foot,"  she  saith, 

"Two  tapers  at  the  head !  " 
(It  seemed  more  like  the  bed  of  death 

Than  like  a  bridal  bed.) 

He  came.     He  took  her  hands  in  his  : 

He  kissed  her  on  the  face  : 
"  There  is  more  heaven  in  thy  kiss 

Than  in  Our  Lady's  grace  ! " 

He  kissed  her  once,  he  kissed  her  twice, 
He  kissed  her  three  times  o'er, 

He  kissed  her  brow,  he  kissed  her  eyes, 
He  kissed  her  mouth's  red  flower. 

"  Oh,  love  !     What  is  it  ails  thy  knight  ? 

I  sicken  and  I  pine  — 
Is  it  the  red  wine  or  the  white, 

Or  that  sweet  kiss  of  thine  ?  " 

"  No  kiss,  no  wine  or  white  or  red 
Can  make  such  sickness  be  :  — 

Lie  down  and  die  on  thy  bride-bed, 
For  I  have  poisoned  thee  ! 


"  And  though  the  curse  of  saints  and  men 

Be  for  the  deed  on  me, 
I  would  it  were  to  do  again, 

Since  thou  wert  false  to  me  ! 

"  Thou  shouldst  have  loved  or  one  or  none, 

Nor  she  nor  I  loved  twain  ; 
But  we  are  twain  thou  hast  undone, 

And  therefore  art  thou  slain. 

"  And  when  before  my  God  I  stand, 

With  no  base  flesh  between, 
I  shall  hold  up  my  guilty  hand, 

And  He  shall  judge  it  clean  !  " 

He  fell  across  the  bridal  bed, 

Between  the  tapers  pale. 
"  I,  first,  shall  see  our  God  "  —  he  said, 

"  And  /  will  tell  thy  tale  ; 

"  And,  if  God  judge  thee  as  I  do 

Then  art  thou  justified  : 
I  loved  thee,  and  I  was  not  true, 

And  that  was  why  I  died. 

"•  If  I  might  judge  thee  —  thou  shouldst  be 

First  of  the  saints  on  high, 
But,  ah,  I  fear  God  loveth  thee 

Not  half  so  dear  as  I ! " 


Constance  €.  W.  -pafcen 


THE     PANTHEIST'S      SONG     OF 
IMMORTALITY 

BRING     snow-white     lilies,     pallid    heart- 
flushed  roses, 
Enwreathe  her  brow  with  heavy  scented 

flowers  ; 

In  soft  undreaming  sleep  her  head  reposes, 
While,    unregretted,     pass     the     sunlit 
hours. 

Few  sorrows  did  she  know  —  and  all  are 

over  ; 

A  thousand  joys  —  but  they  are  all  for- 
got ; 
Her  life  was  one  fair  dream  of  friend  and 

lover, 

And    were    they    false  —  ah,   well,   she 
knows  it  not. 


Look  in  her  face   and  lose  thy  dread  of 

dying  ; 
Weep  not  that  rest  will  come,  that  toil 

will  cease  ; 
Is  it  not  well  to  lie  as  she  is  lying, 

In  utter  silence,  and  in  perfect  peace  ? 

Canst  thou  repine  that  sentient  days  are 

numbered  ? 
Death    is   unconscious    Life,    that  waits 

for  birth  ; 
So  didst  thou  live,  while  yet  thine  embryo 

slumbered, 

Senseless,  unbreathing,  even  as  heaven 
and  earth. 

Then  shrink  no  more  from  Death,  though 

Life  be  gladness, 
Nor  seek  him,  restless  in  thy  lonely  pain ; 


RENNELL   RODD 


563 


The  law  of  joy  ordains  each  hour  of  sadness, 
And  firm  or  frail,  thou  canst  not  live  in 
vain. 

What  though  thy  name  by  no  sad  lips  be 

spoken, 

And  no  fond  heart  shall  keep  thy  mem- 
ory green  ? 
Thou  yet  shalt  leave  thine  own  enduring 

token, 

For  earth  is  not   as  though  thou  ne'er 
hadst  been. 

See  yon  broad  current,  hasting  to  the  ocean, 
Its  ripples  glorious  in  the  western  red  : 

Each   wavelet   passes,   trackless  ;    yet   its 

motion 
Has  changed  for  evermore  the  river  bed. 

Ah,  wherefore  weep,  although  the  form  and 
fashion 


Of  what  thou  seemest  fades  like  sunset 

flame? 

The  uncreated  Source  of  toil  and  passion 
Through  everlasting  change  abides  the 

same. 

Yes,  thou  shalt  die  :   but  these  almighty 

forces, 
That  meet  to  form  thee,  live  for  eveiv 

more  ; 

They  hold  the  suns  in  their  eternal  courses, 
And  shape  the  tiny  sand-grains  on  the 
shore. 

Be  calmly  glad,  thine  own  true   kindred 

seeing 
In  fire  and  storm,  in  flowers  with  dew 

impearled  ; 
Rejoice  in  thine  imperishable  being, 

One  with  the  essence  of  the  boundless 
world. 


ftcnndi 


A  ROMAN  MIRROR 

THEY  found  it  in  her  hollow  marble  bed, 
There  where  the  numberless  dead  cities 

sleep, 
They  found   it   lying  where   the   spade 

struck  deep, 
A  broken  mirror  by  a  maiden  dead. 

These  things  —  the  beads  she  wore  about 

her  throat 

Alternate  blue  and  amber  all  untied, 
A  lamp  to  light  her  way,  and  on  one 

side 

The  toll  men  pay  to  that  strange  ferry- 
boat. 

No  trace  to-day  of  what  in  her  was  fair  ! 
Only  the   record  of  .long  years  grown 

green 

Upon  the  mirror's  lustreless  dead  sheen, 
Grown  dim  at  last,  when  all  else  withered 
there. 

Dead,   broken,   lustreless  !      It   keeps   for 

me 
One  picture  of  that  immemorial  land, 


For  oft  as  I  have  held  thee  in  my  hand 
The  dull  bronze  brightens,  and  I  dream  to 
see 

A   fair  face    gazing    in    thee    wondering 

wise, 
And  o'er  one  marble   shoulder  all  the 

while 
Strange  lips  that  whisper  till  her  own 

lips  smile, 
And  all  the  mirror  laughs  about  her  eyes. 

It  was  well  thought  to  set  thee  there,  so 

she 
Might  smooth  the  windy  ripples  of  her 

hair 
And  knot  their  tangled  waywardness,  or 

ere 
She  stood  before  the  queen  Persephone. 

And  still  it  may  be  where   the  dead  folk 

rest 
She    holds    a    shadowy   mirror    to   her 

eyes, 
And  looks  upon  the  changelessness,  and 

sighs 
And  sets  the  dead  land  lilies  in  her  breast. 


564 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


ACTEA 

WHEN  the  last  bitterness  was  past,  she  bore 
Her  singing  Caesar  to  the  Garden  Hill, 
Her  fallen  pitiful  dead  emperor. 
She  lifted  up  the  beggar's  cloak  he  wore 

—  The  one  thing  living  that  he  would  not 

kill  — 

And  on  those  lips  of  his  that  sang  no  more, 
That  world-loathed  head  which  she  found 

lovely  still, 
Her  cold  lips  closed,  in  death  she  had  her 

will. 

Oh  wreck  of  the  lost  human  soul  left  free 
To  gorge  the  beast  thy  mask  of  manhood 

screened  ! 

Because  one  living  thing,  albeit  a  slave, 
Shed   those   hot   tears  on  thy  dishonored 

grave, 

Although  thy  curse  be  as  the  shoreless  sea, 
Because   she  loved,   thou  art  not   wholly 

fiend. 

IMPERATOR  AUGUSTUS 

Is  this  the  man  by  whose  decree  abide 
The  lives   of   countless   nations,  with  the 

trace 
Of   fresh   tears   wet   upon  the   hard   cold 

face? 

—  He   wept,   because    a  little   child    had 

died. 

They  set  a  marble  image  by  his  side, 
A  sculptured  Eros,  ready  for  the  chase  ; 
It  wore  the  dead  boy's  features,  and  the 

grace 
Of  pretty  ways   that  were  the  old  man's 

pride. 
And  so  he  smiled,  grown  softer  now,  and 

tired 

Of  too  much  empire,  and  it  seemed  a  joy 
Fondly  to  stroke  and  pet  the  curly  head, 
The  smooth  round  limbs  so  strangely  like 

the  dead, 

To  kiss  the  white  lips  of  his  marble  boy 
And  call  by  name  his  little  heart's-desired. 


THE  DAISY 

WITH  little  white  leaves  in  the  grasses, 
Spread  wide  for  the  smile  of  the  sun, 


It  waits  till  the  daylight  passes 
And  closes  them  one  by  one. 

I  have  asked  why  it  closed  at  even, 
And  I  know  what  it  wished  to  say : 

There  are  stars  all  night  in  the  heaven) 
And  I  am  the  star  of  day. 


"WHEN  I  AM   DEAD" 

WHEN  I  am  dead,  my  spirit 

Shall  wander  far  and  free, 
Through  realms  the  dead  inherit 

Of  earth  and  sky  and  sea  ; 
Through  morning  dawn  and  gloaming, 

By  midnight  moons  at  will, 
By  shores  where  the  waves  are  foaming, 

By  seas  where  the  waves  are  still. 
I,  following  late  behind  you, 

In  wingless  sleepless  flight, 
Will  wander  till  I  find,  you, 

In  sunshine  or  twilight  ; 
With  silent  kiss  for  greeting 

On  lips  and  eyes  and  head, 
In  that  strange  after-meeting 

Shall  love  be  perfected. 
We  shall  lie  in  summer  breezes 

And  pass  where  whirlwinds  go, 
And  the  northern  blast  that  freezes 

Shall  bear  us  with  the  snow. 
We  shall  stand  above  the  thunder, 

And  watch  the  lightnings  hurled 
At  the  misty  mountains  under, 

Of  the  dim  forsaken  world. 
We  shall  find  our  footsteps'  traces, 

And  passing  hand  in  hand 
By  old  familiar  places, 

We  shall  laugh,  and  understand. 


THEN  AND  NOW 

THERE  never  were  such  radiant  noons, 
Such  roses,  such  fair  weather, 

Such  nightingales,  such  mellow  moons, 
As  while  we  were  together  ! 

But  now  the  suns  are  poor  and  pale, 

The  cloudy  twilight  closes, 
The  mists  have  choked  the  nightingale, 

The  blight  has  killed  the  roses. 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


565 


IBiHiam 

EPIGRAMS 

TO    A   SEABIRD 

FAIN  would  I  have  thee  barter  fates  with 

me,  — 
Lone  loiterer  where  the  shells  like  iewels 

be, 
Hung  on  the  fringe  and  frayed  hem  of  the 

sea. 
But  no,  —  't  were  cruel,  wild-wing'd  Bliss  ! 

to  thee. 

THE  PLAY  OF  "KING  LEAR" 

HERE  Love  the  slain  with  Love  the  slayer 

lies  ; 

Deep  drowned  are  both  in  the  same  sun- 
less pool. 
Up  from  its  depths  that  mirror  thundering 

skies 

Bubbles  the  wan  mirth  of  the  mirthless 
Fool. 

BYRON   THE   VOLUPTUARY 

Too  avid  of  earth's  bliss,  he  was  of  those 
Whom   Delight   flies  because  they  give 

her  chase. 
Only  the  odor  of  her  wild  hair  blows 

Back  in  their  faces   hungering  for  her 
face. 

ON  DURER'S  MELENCOLIA 

WHAT  holds   her  fixed  far  eyes  nor  lets 

them  range  ? 
Not   the    strange   sea,    strange    earth,   or 

heav'n  more  strange  ; 
But  her  own  phantom  dwarfing  these  great 

three, 
More    strange    than    all,   more    old   than 

heav'u,  earth,  sea. 

EXIT 

IN  mid  whirl  of  the  dance  of  Time  ye  start, 

Start  at  the  cold  touch  of  Eternity, 
And  cast  your  cloaks  about  you,  and  de- 
part : 

The  minstrels  pause   not  in  their  min- 
strelsy. 


LACHRYM^:   MUSARUM 

(6TH    OCTOBER,   1892) 

Low,  like  another's,  lies  the  laurelled; 
head  : 

The  life  that  seemed  a  perfect  song  is  o'er  i 

Carry  the  last  great  bard  to  his  last  bed. 

Laud  that  he  loved,  thy  noblest  voice  is 
mute. 

Land  that  he  loved,  that  loved  him  !  never- 
more 

Meadow  of  thine,  smooth  lawn  or  wild  sea- 
shore, 

Gardens  of  odorous  bloom  and  tremulous 
fruit, 

Or  woodlands  old,  like  Druid  couches 
spread, 

The  master's  feet  shall  tread. 

Death's  little  rift  hath  rent  the  faultless 
lute: 

The  singer  of  undying  songs  is  dead. 

Lo,  in  this  season  pensive-hued  and  grave, 
While  fades  and  falls  the  doomed,  reluc- 
tant leaf 

From  withered  Earth's  fantastic  coronal, 
With   wandering   sighs   of   forest   and   of 

wave 

Mingles  the  murmur  of  a  people's  grief 
For  him  whose  leaf  shall  fade  not,  neither 

fall. 
He  hath  fared  forth,  beyond  these  suns  and 

showers. 

For  us,  the  autumn  glow,  the  autumn  flame, 
And  soon  the  winter  silence  shall  be  ours  : 
Him  the  eternal  spring  of  fadeless  fame 
Crowns  with  no  mortal  flowers. 

Rapt  though  he  be  from  us, 
Virgil  salutes  him,  and  Theocritus  ; 
Catullus,  mightiest-brained  Lucretius,  each 
Greets  him,  their  brother,  on  the  Stygian 

beach  ; 
Proudly  a  gaunt  right  hand  doth   Dante 

reach  ; 
Milton  and  Wordsworth  bid  him  welcome 

home  ; 
Bright  Keats   to  touch  his   raiment   doth 

beseech  ; 
Coleridge,   his   locks  aspersed  with  fairy 

foam, 


566 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Calm  Spenser,  Chaucer  suave, 

His  equal  friendship  crave  : 

And   godlike   spirits    hail    him    guest,   in 

speech 
Of  Athens,  Florence,  Weimar,  Stratford, 

Rome. 

What   needs  his  laurel   our  ephemeral 

tears, 

To  save  from  visitation  of  decay  ? 
Not  in  this  temporal  sunlight,  now,  that 

bay 

Blooms,  nor  to  perishable  mundane  ears 
Sings  he  with  lips  of  transitory  clay  ; 
For  he  hath  joined  the  chorus  of  his  peers 
In  habitations  of  the  perfect  day  : 
His    earthly  notes    a    heavenly   audience 

hears, 
And  more   melodious  are   henceforth  the 

spheres, 
Enriched   with  music    stolen  from    earth 

away. 

He  hath  returned  to  regions  whence  he 

came. 

Him  doth  the  spirit  divine 
Of  universal  lovelinesss  reclaim. 
All  nature  is  his  shrine. 
Seek  him  henceforward  in  the  wind  and 

sea, 

In  earth's  and  air's  emotion  or  repose, 
In  every  star's  august  serenity, 
And  in  the  rapture  of  the  naming  rose. 
There   seek  him  if  ye  would  not  seek  in 

vain, 
There,  in   the   rhythm  and   music  of  the 

Whole  ; 

Yea,  and  forever  in  the  human  soul 
Made  stronger  and  more  beauteous  by  his 

strain. 

For  lo  1    creation's    self    is    one    great 

choir, 

And  what  is  nature's  order  but  the  rhyme 
Whereto  the  worlds  keep  time, 
And  all  things  move  with  all  things  from 

their  prime  ? 
Who  shall   expound  the  mystery  of  the 

lyre  ? 

In  far  retreats  of  elemental  mind 
Obscurely  comes  and  goes 
The  imperative  breath  of  song,  that  as  the 

wind 
Is    trackless,    and    oblivious    whence    it 

blows. 


Demand  of  lilies  wherefore  they  are  white, 
Extort  her  crimson  secret  from  the  rose, 
But  ask  not  of  the  Muse  that  she  disclose 
The  meaning  of  the  riddle  of  her  might  s 
Somewhat  of  all  things  sealed  and  recon- 
dite, 

Save  the  enigma  of  herself,  she  knows. 
The   master  could   not  tell,  with  all  his 

lore, 
Wherefore  he  sang,  or  whence  the  mandate 

sped  : 

Even  as  the  linnet  sings,  so  I,  he  said  ;  — 
Ah,  rather  as  the  imperial  nightingale, 
That  held  in  trance  the  ancient  Attic  shore, 
And  charms  the  ages  with  the  notes  that 

o'er 

All  woodland  chants  immortally  prevail  ! 
And  now,  from  our  vain  plaudits  greatly 

fled, 

He  with  diviner  silence  dwells  instead, 
And  on  no  earthly  sea  with  transient  roar, 
Unto  no  earthly  airs,  he  trims  his  sail, 
But  far  beyond  our  vision  and  our  hail 
Is  heard  forever  and  is  seen  no  more. 

No  more,  O  never  now, 

Lord  of  the  lofty  and  the  tranquil  brew 

Whereon  nor  snows  of  time 

Have  fallen,  nor  wintry  rime, 

Shall  men  behold  thee,  sage  and  mage 
sublime. 

Once,  in  his  youth  obscure, 

The  maker  of  this  verse,  which  shall  en- 
dure 

By  splendor  of  its  theme  that  cannot  die, 

Beheld  thee  eye  to  eye, 

And  touched  through  thee  the  hand 

Of  every  hero  of  thy  race  divine, 

Even  to  the  sire  of  all  the  laurelled  line, 

The  sightless  wanderer  on  the  Ionian  strand, 

With  soul  as  healthful  as  the  poignant 
brine, 

Wide  as  his  skies  and  radiant  as  his  seas, 

Starry  from  haunts  of  his  Familiars  nine, 

Glorious  Ma3onides. 

Yea,  I  beheld  thee,  and  behold  thee  yet  : 

Thou  hast  forgotten,  but  can  I  forget  ? 

The  accents  of  thy  pure  and  sovereign 
tongue, 

Are  they  not  ever  goldenly  imprest 

On  memory's  palimpsest  ? 

I  see  the  wizard  locks  like  night  that 
hung, 

I  tread  the  floor  thy  hallowing  feet  have 
trod  j 


WILLIAM   WATSON 


567 


I  see  the  hands  a  nation's  lyre  that  strung, 
The   eyes   that    looked   through   life    and 
gazed  on  God. 

The  seasons  change,  the  winds  they  shift 
and  veer  ; 

The  grass  of  yesteryear 

Is  dead ;  the  birds  depart,  the  groves  de- 
cay : 

Empires  dissolve  and  peoples  disappear  : 

Song  passes  not  away. 

Captains  and  conquerors  leave  a  little  dust, 

And  kings  a  dubious  legend  of  their  reign  ; 

The  swords  of  Caesars,  they  are  less  than 
rust : 

The  poet  doth  remain. 

Dead  is  Augustus,  Maro  is  alive  ; 

And  thou,  the  Mantuan  of  our  age  and 
clime, 

Like  Virgil  shalt  thy  race  and  tongue  sur- 
vive, 

Bequeathing  no  less  honeyed  words  to 
time, 

Embalmed  in  amber  of  eternal  rhyme, 

And  rich  with  sweets  from  every  Muse's 
hive  ; 

While  to  the  measure  of  the  cosmic  rune 

For  purer  ears  thou  shalt  thy  lyre  attune, 

And  heed  no  more  the  hum  of  idle  praise 

In  that  great  calm  our  tumults  cannot 
reach, 

Master  who  crown'st  our  immelodious  days 

With  flower  of  perfect  speech. 


THE    FIRST    SKYLARK    OF 
SPRING 

Two  worlds  hast  thou  to  dwell  in,  Sweet,  — 

The  virginal,  untroubled  sky, 
And  this  vexed  region  at  my  feet.  — 
Alas,  but  one  have  1 1 

To  all  my  songs  there  clings  the  shade, 
The  dulling  shade,  of  mundane  care  ; 
They  amid  mortal  mists  are  made,  — 
Thine,  in  immortal  air. 

My  heart  is  dashed  with  griefs  and  fears  ; 

My  song  comes  fluttering,  and  is  gone. 
0  high  above  the  home  of  tears, 
Eternal  Joy,  sing  on  1 

Not  loftiest  bard,  of  mightiest  mind, 
Shall  ever  chant  a  note  so  pure, 


Till  he  can  cast  this  earth  behind 

And  breathe  in  heaven  secure. 

We  sing  of  Life,  with  stormy  breath 

That  shakes  the  lute's  distempered  string! 
We  sing  of  Love,  and  loveless  Death 
Takes  up  the  song  we  sing. 

And  born  in  toils  of  Fate's  control, 

Insurgent  from  the  womb,  we  strive 
With  proud,  unmanumitted  soul 

To  burst  the  golden  gyve. 

Thy  spirit  knows  nor  bounds  nor  bars  ; 
On  thee  no  shreds  of  thraldom  hang  : 
Not  more  enlarged,  the  morning  stars 
Their  great  Te  Deum  sang. 

But  I  am  fettered  to  the  sod, 

And  but  forget  my  bonds  an  hour  ; 
In  amplitude  of  dreams  a  god, 

A  slave  in  dearth  of  power. 

And  fruitless  knowledge  clouds  my  soul, 

And  fretful  ignorance  irks  it  more. 
Thou  sing'st  as  if  thou  knew'st  the  whole, 
And  lightly  held'st  thy  lore  ! 

Sing,  for  with  rapturous  throes  of  birth, 

And  arrowy  labyrinthine  sting, 
There  riots  in  the  veins  of  Earth 
The  ichor  of  the  Spring  ! 

Sing,  for  the  beldam  Night  is  fled, 

And  Morn  the  bride  is  wreathed  and  gayi 
Sing,  while  her  revelling  lord  o'erhead 
Leads  the  wild  dance  of  day  ! 

The  serpent  Winter  sleeps  upcurled  : 

Sing,  till  I  know  not  if  there  be 
Aught  else  in  the  dissolving  world 
But  melody  and  thee  I 

Sing,  as  thou  drink'st  of  heaven  thy  fill, 

All  hope,  all  wonder,  all  desire  — 
Creation's  ancient  canticle 

To  which  the  worlds  conspire  ! 

Somewhat  as  thou,  Man  once  could  sing, 

In  porches  of  the  lucent  morn, 
Ere  he  had  felt  his  lack  of  wing, 
Or  cursed  his  iron  bourn. 

The  springtime  bubbled  in  his  throat, 
The  sweet  sky  seemed  not  far  above, 


568 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


And  young  and  lovesome  came  the  note  ;  — 
Ah,  thine  is  Youth  and  Love  ! 

Thou  sing'st  of  what  he  knew  of  old, 
And  dreamlike  from  afar  recalls  ; 
In  flashes  of  forgotten  gold 

An  orient  glory  falls. 

And  as  he  listens,  one  by  one 

Life's  utmost  splendors  blaze  more  nigh  ; 
Less  inaccessible  the  sun, 

Less  alien  grows  the  sky. 

For  ihou  art  native  to  the  spheres, 

And  of  the  courts  of  heaven  art  free, 
And  carriest  to  his  temporal  ears 
News  from  eternity  ; 

And  lead'st  him  to  the  dizzy  verge, 

And  lur'st  him  o'er  the  dazzling  line, 
Where  mortal  and  immortal  merge, 
And  human  dies  divine. 


SONG    IN     IMITATION    OF    THE 
ELIZABETHANS 

SWEETEST  sweets  that  time  hath  rifled 
Live  anew  on  lyric  tongue  — 

Tresses  with  which  Paris  trifled, 
Lips  to  Antony's  that  clung. 

These  surrender  not  their  rose, 

Nor  their  golden  puissance  those. 

Vain  the  envious  loam  that  covers 
Her  of  Egypt,  her  of  Troy  : 

Helen's,  Cleopatra's  lovers 
Still  desire  them,  still  enjoy. 

Fate  but  stole  what  Song  restored  : 

Vain  the  aspic,  vain  the  cord. 

Idly  clanged  the  sullen  portal, 

Idly  the  sepulchral  door  : 
Fame  the  mighty,  Love  the  immortal, 

These  than  foolish  dust  are  more : 
Nor  may  captive  Death  refuse 
Homage  to  the  conquering  Muse. 


IN   PACE 

WHEN  you  are  dead  some  day,  my  dear, 

Quite  dead  and  under  ground, 
Where  you  will  never  see  or  hear 

A  summer  sight  or  sound, 
What  shall  remain  of  you  in  death, 

When  all  our  songs  to  you 
Are  silent  as  the  bird  whose  breath 

Has  sung  the  summer  through  ? 

I  wonder,  will  you  ever  wake, 

And  with  tired  eyes  again 
Live  for  your  old  life's  little  sake 

An  age  of  joy  or  pain  ? 
Shall  some  stern  destiny  control 

That  perfect  form,  wherein 
I  hardly  see  enough  of  soul 

To  make  your  life  a  sin  ? 

For,  we  have  heard,  for  all  men  born 

One  harvest-day  prepares 
Its  golden  garners  for  the  corn, 

And  fire  to  burn  the  tares  ; 
But  who  shall  gather  into  sheaves, 

Or  turn  aside  to  blame 
The  poppies'  puckered  helpless  leaves, 

Blown  bells  of  scarlet  flame  ? 


No  hate  so  hard,  no  love  so  bold 

To  seek  your  bliss  or  woe  ; 
You  are  too  sweet  for  hell  to  hold, 

And  heaven  would  tire  you  so. 
A  little  while  your  joy  shall  be, 

And  when  you  crave  for  rest 
The  earth  shall  take  you  utterly 

Again  into  her  breast. 

And  we  will  find  a  quiet  place 

For  your  still  sepulchre, 
And  lay  the  flowers  upon  your  face 

Sweet  as  your  kisses  were, 
And  with  hushed  voices  void  of  mirth 

Spread  the  light  turf  above, 
Soft  as  the  silk  you  loved  on  earth 

As  much  as  you  could  love. 

Few  tears,  but  once,  our  eyes  shall  shed, 

Nor  will  we  sigh  at  all, 
But  come  and  look  upon  your  bed 

When  the  warm  sunlights  fall. 
Upon  that  grave  no  tree  of  fruit 

Shall  grow,  nor  any  grain, 
Only  one  flower  of  shallow  root 

That  will  not  spring  again. 


JOHN   BLAIKIE  — FRANCIS   THOMPSON 


569 


ON  THE  BRIDGE 

ALL  the  storm  has  rolled  away, 
Only  now  a  cloud  or  two 

Drifts  in  ragged  disarray 

Over  the  deep  darkened  blue  ; 

And  the  risen  golden  moon 

Shakes  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
Round  the  river's  stillnesses 

And  the  birdsong  of  the  June. 


Under  me  the  current  glides, 
Brown  and  deep  and  dimly  lit, 

Soundless  save  against  the  sides 
Of  the  arch  that  narrows  it  ; 

And  the  only  sound  that  grieves 
Is  a  noise  that  never  stops, 
Footsteps  of  the  falling  drops 

Down  the  ladders  of  the  leaves. 


ABSENCE 

IF  not  now  soft  airs  may  blow 

From  thy  haven  unto  me, 
If  not  now  last  Autumn's  glow 

Thrill  delight  'twixt  me  and  thee, 
Call  up  Memory,  oh,  entreat  her, 
In  the  present  there  's  none  sweeter. 

One  true  thought  and  constant  only 

To  that  pleasurable  time 
Me  sufnceth  to  make  lonely 

All  the  void  and  mocking  prime 
Of  this  summertide,  whose  story 
Pales  in  that  exceeding  glory. 

SONG 

IN  thy  white  bosom  Love  is  laid  ; 

His  rosy  cheek  within  that  nest 
Another  dawning  there  hath  made, 

Causing  in  me  a  new  unrest. 
Like  as  the  sun  the  hills  with  fire 
He  wakes  anew  my  old  desire. 

But  ah,  thou  dost  defy  the  boy, 

Too  strong  for  him  and  me  dost  prove, 


c  Blaifcie 

The  freezing  snows  proclaim  thee  coy, 

Purloin  the  blushing  hope  of  Love 
Who  flies,  alas  for  thy  disdain  ! 
The  throne  where  he  alone  should  reign, 

LOVE'S  SECRET  NAME 

SIGH  his  name  into  the  night 
With  the  stars  for  company, 

From  thy  lips  't  will  take  fair  flight, 
Doing  thee  no  injury, 

If  by  the  sea  or  trysting-tree 

Thou  breathe  it  in  no  company. 

Whisper  it  from  thy  full  heart, 
Let  none  hear  thy  passion  moan, 

Safe  from  cruel  pang  or  smart, 
To  the  cold  world  unbeknown, 

By  darkling  tree  or  silent  sea 

With  Love  alone  for  company. 

In  thy  heart  of  hearts  let  sleep 
All  thy  rapture  ;  and  his  name 

True  in  purity  shall  keep 

All  its  vital  force  and  flame  ; 

Fickle  speech  and  falsest  jar 

Come  from  lips  that  loudest  are. 


ifrancig 

TO  A  POET  BREAKING  SILENCE 

Too  wearily  had  we  and  song 
Been  left  to  look  and  left  to  long, 
Yea,  song  and  we  to  long  and  look, 
Since  thine  acquainted  feet  forsook 


The  mountain  where  the  Muses  hymn 
For  Sinai  and  the  Seraphim. 
Now  in  both  the  mountains'  shine 
Dress  thy  countenance,  twice  divine  i 
From  Moses  and  the  Muses  draw 
The  Tables  of  thy  double  Law  1 


57° 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


His  rod-born  fount  and  Castaly 

Let  the  one  rock  bring  forth  for  thee, 

Renewing  so  from  either  spring 

The  songs  which  both  thy  countries  sing  : 

Or  we  shall  fear  lest,  heavened  thus  long, 

Thou  shouldst  forget  thy  native  song, 

And  mar  thy  mortal  melodies 

With  broken  stammer  of  the  skies. 

Ah  !  let  the  sweet  birds  of  the  Lord 
With  earth's  waters  make  accord  ; 
Teach  how  the  crucifix  may  be 
Carven  from  the  laurel-tree, 
Fruit  of  the  Hesperides 
Burnish  take  on  Eden-trees, 
The  Muses'  sacred  grove  be  wet 
With  the  red  dew  of  Olivet, 
And  Sappho  lay  her  burning  brows 
In  white  Cecilia's  lap  of  snows  ! 

Thy  childhood  must  have  felt  the  stings 
Of  too  divine  o'ershadowings  ; 
Its  odorous  heart  have  been  a  blossom 
That  in  darkness  did  unbosom, 
Those  fire-flies  of  God  to  invite, 
Burning  spirits,  which  by  night 
Bear  upon  their  laden  wing 
To  such  hearts  impregnating. 
For  flowers  that  night-wings  fertilize 
Mock  down  the  stars'  unsteady  eyes, 
And  with  a  happy,  sleepless  glance 
Gaze  the  moon  out  of  countenance. 
I  think  thy  girlhood's  watchers  must 
Have  took  thy  folded  songs  on  trust, 
And  felt  them,  as  one  feels  the  stir 
Of  still  lightnings  in  the  hair, 
When  conscious  hush  expects  the  cloud 
To  speak  the  golden  secret  loud 
Which  tacit  air  is  privy  to  ; 
Flasked  in  the  grape  the  wine  they  knew, 
Ere  thy  poet-mouth  was  able 
For  its  first  young  starry  babble. 
Keep'st  thou  not  yet  that  subtle  grace  ? 
Yea,  in  this  silent  interspace, 
God  sets  His  poems  in  thy  face  ! 

The  loom  which  mortal  verse  affords, 
Out  of  weak  and  mortal  words, 
Wovest  thou  thy  singing-weed  in, 
To  a  rune  of  thy  far  Eden. 
Vain  are  all  disguises  !  ah, 
Heavenly  incognita  ! 

Thy  mien  bewrayeth  through  that  wrong 
The  great  Uranian  House  of  Song ! 


As  the  vintages  of  earth 

Taste  of  the  sun  that  riped  their  birth, 

We  know  what  never  cadent  Sun 

Thy  lamped  clusters  throbbed  upon, 

What  plumed  feet  the  winepress  trod  ; 

Thy  wine  is  flavorous  of  God. 

Whatever  singing-robe  thou  wear 

Has  the  Paradisal  air  ; 

And  some  gold  feather  it  has  kept 

Shows  what  Floor  it  lately  swept ! 


DREAM-TRYST 

THE  breaths  of  kissing  night  and  day 

Were  mingled  in  the  eastern  Heaven  : 
Throbbing  with  unheard  melody 

Shook  Lyra  all  its  star-chord  seven  : 
When  dusk  shrunk  cold,  and  light  trod 

shy, 
And  dawn's  gray  eyes  were  troubled 

gray; 

And  souls  went  palely  up  the  sky, 
And  mine  to  Lucide*. 

There  was  no  change  in  her  sweet  eyes 

Since  last  I  saw  those  sweet  eyes  shine  ; 
There  was  no  change  in  her  deep  heart 
Since  last   that  de«p  heart  -knocked  at 

mine. 
Her  eyes  were   clear,  her   eyes  were 

Hope's, 

Wherein  did  ever  come  and  go 
The  sparkle  of  the  fountain-drops 
From  her  sweet  soul  below. 

The  chambers  in  the  house  of  dreams 

Are  fed  with  so  divine  an  air 
That    Time's     hoar    wings     grow    young 

therein, 

And  they  who  walk  there  are  most  fair. 
I  joyed  for  me,  I  joyed  for  her, 

Who  with  the  Past  meet  girt  about  : 
Where  our  last  kiss  still  warms  the  air, 
Nor  can  her  eyes  go  out. 


DAISY 

WHERE  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six  foot  out  of  the  turf, 
And   the   harebell    shakes   on    the   windy 
hill  — 

O  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf  !  — 


JAMES   KENNETH   STEPHEN 


The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 
And  southward  dreams  the  sea  ; 

And,  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand, 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry 

Red  for  the  gatherer  springs, 
Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 

Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  mid  flower  and  spine  : 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape,  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 
Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way  ; 

But  there  's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 
Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day  ! 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 
On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray  ; 

But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 
Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day  ! 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face ! 

She  gave  me  tokens  three  :  — 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 
A  still  word,  —  strings  of  sand  ! 

And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 
Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 


For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end  : 
Their  scent  survives  their  close, 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose  ! 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully, 

Then  went  her  sunshine  way  :  — 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone, 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 
Was  sad  that  she  was  glad  ; 

At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 
The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 
Look  up  with  soft  replies, 

And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 
And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends, 
That  is  not  paid  with  moan  ; 

For  we  are  born  in  others'  pain, 
And  perish  in  our  own. 


fcennetf) 


LAPSUS    CALAMI 

TO   R.   K. 


WILL  there  never  come  a  season 

Which  shall  rid  us  from  the  curse 

Of  a  prose  which  knows  no  reason 

And  an  unmelodious  verse  : 

When  the  world  shall  cease  to  wonder 

At  the  genius  of  an  ass, 

And  a  boy's  eccentric  blunder 

Shall  not  bring  success  to  pass  : 

When  mankind  shall  be  delivered 
From  the  clash  of  magazines, 
And  the  inkstand  shall  be  shivered 
Into  countless  smithereens  : 


When  there  stands  a  muzzled  stripling, 
Mute,  beside  a  muzzled  bore  : 
When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  kipling 
And  the  Haggards  ride  no  more. 

A  THOUGHT 

IF  all  the  harm  that  women  have  done 
Were  put  in  a  bundle  and  rolled  into  one, 

Earth  would  not  hold  it, 

The  sky  could  not  enfold  it, 
It  could  not  be  lighted  nor  warmed  by  the 
sun  ; 

Such  masses  of  evil 

Would  puzzle  the  devil 
And  keep  him  in  fuel  while  Time's  wheels 


572 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


But  if  all  the  harm  that 's  been  done   by 

men 
Were  doubled   and   doubled   and  doubled 

again, 
And    melted    and    fused   into   vapor   and 

then 
Were  squared  and  raised  to  the  power  of 

ten, 
There    would  n't    be    nearly   enough,   not 

near, 
To  keep  a  small  girl  for  the  tenth  of  a 

year. 

A  SONNET 

Two  voices    are    there :    one    is    of    the 

deep  ; 
It    learns    the    storm-cloud's    thunderous 

melody, 


Now  roars,  now  murmurs  with  the  chan- 
ging sea, 
Now   bird-like    pipes,  now   closes   soft   in 

sleep  : 

And  one  is  of  an  old  half-witted  sheep 
Which  bleats  articulate  monotony, 
And  indicates  that  two  and  one  are  threes 
That  grass  is  green,  lakes  damp,  and  moun^ 

tains  steep  : 
And,  Wordsworth,  both  are  thine  •  at  cer 

tain  times, 
Forth   from    the   heart   of    thy  melodious 

rhymes 
The  form  and   pressure  of  high  thoughts 

will  burst  : 

At  other  times  —  good  Lord  !  I  'd  rather  be 
Quite  unacquainted  with  the  A.  B.  C. 
Than  write  such  hopeless  rubbish  as  thy 

worst. 


fto^amunti 


("GRAHAM   R.   TOMSON  ") 


LE  MAUVAIS  LARRON 
(SUGGESTED  BY  WILLETTE'S  PICTURE) 

THE   moorland  waste    lay  hushed    in    the 

dusk  of  the  second  day, 
Till  a  shuddering  wind  and  shrill  moaned 

up  through  the  twilight  gray  ; 
Like  a  wakening  wraith  it  rose  from  the 

grave  of  the  buried  sun, 
And   it  whirled   the   sand  by  the   tree  — 

(there  was  never  a  tree  but  one  — ) 
But  the  tall  bare  bole  stood  fast,  unswayed 

with  the  mad  wind's  stress, 
And  a  strong  man  hung  thereon  in  his  pain 

and  his  nakedness. 
His  feet  were  nailed  to  the  wood,  and  his 

arm  strained  over  his  head  ; 
'T  was  the  dusk  of  the  second  day,  and  yet 

was  the  man  not  dead. 
The  cold  blast  lifted  his  hair,  but  his  limbs 

were  set  and  stark, 
A.nd    under   their   heavy    brows    his    eyes 

stared  into  the  dark  : 
He  looked  out  over  the  waste,  and  his  eyes 

were  as  coals  of  fire, 
Lit   up   with   anguish   and   hate,  and   the 

flame  of  a  strong  desire. 


The  dark  blood  sprang  from  his  wounds, 

the  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  face, 
For  over  the  darkening  plain  came  a  rider 

riding  apace. 
Her  rags  flapped   loose  in  the  wind  ;  the 

last  of  the  sunset  glare 
Flung   dusky  gold   on  her  brow  and  her 

bosom  broad  and  bare. 
She  was  haggard  with  want  and  woe,  on  a 

jaded  steed  astride, 
And  still,  as  it  staggered  and  strove,  she 

smote  on  its  heaving  side, 
Till  she  came  to  the  limbless  tree  where 

the  tortured  man  hung  high  — 
A   motionless  crooked   mass    on  a  yellow 

streak  in  the  sky. 

"'Tis  I  —  I  am  here,  Antoine  —  I  have 

found  thee  at  last,"  she  said  ; 
"  O  the  hours  have  been  long,  but  long  ! 

and  the  minutes  as  drops  of  lead. 
Have    they    trapped    thee,    the    full  -  fed 

flock,  thou  wert  wont  to  harry  and 

spoil  ? 
Do  they  laugh  in  their  town   secure   o'er 

their  measures  of  wine  and  oil  ? 
Ah  God  !   that  these   hands   might   reach 

where  they  loll  in  their  rich  array  ; 


ROSAMUND   MARRIOTT   WATSON 


573 


Ah  God,  that  they  were  but  mine,  all  mine, 

to  mangle  and  slay  ! 
How   they   shuddered    and    shrank,    ere- 

while,   at    the   sound   of    thy   very 

name, 
When  we  lived  as  the  gray   wolves  live, 

whom  torture  nor  want  may  tame  : 
And  thou  but  a  man !  and  still  a  scourge 

and  a  terror  to  men, 
Yet  only  my  lover  to  me,  my  dear,  in  the 

rare  days  then. 

0  years  of  revel  and  love  !  ye  are  gone  as 

the  wind  goes  by, 

He  is  snared  and  shorn  of  his  strength,  and 
the  anguish  of  hell  have  I  — 

1  am  here,   O  love,  at  thy  feet  ;  I  have 

ridden  far  and  fast 

To  gaze  in  thine  eyes  again,  and  to  kiss 
thy  lips  at  the  last." 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  upright  on 
the  gaunt  mare's  back, 

And  she  pressed  her  full  red  lips  to  his 
that  were  strained  and  black. 

"  Good-night,  for  the  last  time  now  —  good- 
night, beloved,  and  good-bye  — ' 

And  his  soul  fled  into  the  waste  between  a 
kiss  and  a  sigh. 


DEID  FOLKS'  FERRY 

'T  is  They,  of  a  veritie  — 

They  are  calling  thin  an'  shrill  ; 
We  maun  rise  an'  put  to  sea, 

We  maun  gi'e  the  deid  their  will, 
We  maun  ferry  them  owre  the  faem, 

For  they  draw  us  as  they  list ; 
We  maun  bear  the  deid  folk  hame 

Through   the    mirk    an'   the   saft    sea- 
mist. 

"  But  how  can  I  gang  the  nicht, 

When  I  'm  new  come  hame  frae  sea  ? 
When  my  heart  is  sair  for  the  sicht 

O'  my  lass  that  langs  for  me  ?  " 
j!  0  your  lassie  lies  asleep, 

An'  sae  do  your  bairnies  twa  ; 
The  cliff-path  's  stey  an'  steep, 

An'  the  deid  folk  cry  an'  ca'." 

0  sae  hooly  steppit  we, 
For  the  nicht  was  mirk  an'  lown, 


Wi'  never  a  sign  to  see, 

But  the  voices  all  aroun'. 
We  laid  to  the  saut  sea-shore, 

An'  the  boat  dipped  low  i'  th'  tide, 
As  she  micht  hae  dipped  wi'  a  score, 

An'  our  aiu  three  sel's  beside. 

O  the  boat  she  settled  low, 

Till  her  gunwale  kissed  the  faem, 
An'  she  didna  loup  nor  row 

As  she  bare  the  deid  folk  hame  ; 
But  she  aye  gaed  swift  an'  licht, 

An'  we  naething  saw  nor  wist  - 
Wha  sailed  i'  th'  boat  that  nicht 

Through  the  niirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

There  was  never  a  sign  to  see, 

But  a  misty  shore  an'  low  ; 
Never  a  word  spak'  we, 

But  the  boat  she  lichtened  slow, 
An'  a  cauld  sigh  stirred  my  hair, 

An'  a  cauld  hand  touched  my  wrist, 
An'  my  heart  sank  cauld  and  sair 

I'  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

Then  the  wind  raise  up  wi'  a  maen, 

('T  was  a  waefu'  wind,  an'  weet), 
Like  a  deid  saul  wild  wi'  pain, 

Like  a  bairnie  wild  wi'  freit  ; 
But  the  boat  rade  swift  an'  licht, 

Sae  we  wan  the  land  fu'  sune, 
An'  the  shore  showed  wan  an'  white 

By  a  glint  o'  the  waning  mune. 

We  steppit  oot  owre  the  sand 

Where  an  unco'  tide  had  been, 
An'  Black  Donald  caught  my  hand 

An'  coverit  up  his  een  : 
For  there,  in  the  wind  an'  weet, 

Or  ever  I  saw  nor  wist, 
My  Jean  an'  her  weans  lay  cauld  at  my 
feet, 

In  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 

An'  it 's  O  for  my  bonny  Jean  ! 

An'  it 's  O  for  my  bairnies  twa, 
It 's  O  an'  O  for  the  watchet  een 

An'  the  steps  that  are  gane  awa'  — 
Awa'  to  the  Silent  Place, 

Or  ever  I  saw  nor  wist, 
Though  I  wot  we  twa  went  face  to  face 

Through  the  mirk  an'  the  saft  sea-mist. 


574 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


HEREAFTER 

SHALL  we  not  weary  in  the  windless  days 
Hereafter,  for  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
The  cool  salt  air  across  some  grassy  lea  ? 
Shall  we  not  go  bewildered  through  a  maze 
Of    stately   streets    with   glittering    gems 

ablaze, 

Forlorn  amid  the  pearl  and  ivory, 
Straining  our  eyes  beyond  the  bourne  to  see 
Phantoms  from  out  Life's  dear,  forsaken 

ways  ? 

Give  us  again  the  crazy  clay-built  nest, 
Summer,  and  soft  unseasonable  spring, 
Our  flowers  to  pluck,  our  broken  songs  to 

sing, 

Our  fairy  gold  of  evening  in  the  West ; 
Still  to  the  land  we  love  our  longings 

cling, 

The  sweet,  vain  world  of  turmoil  and  un- 
rest. 

THE  FARM  ON  THE  LINKS 

GRAY   o'er  the  pallid  links,  haggard  and 

forsaken, 

Still  the  old  roof-tree  hangs  rotting  over- 
head, 
Still  the  black  windows  stare  sullenly  to 

seaward, 

Still  the  blank  doorway  gapes,  open  to 
the  dead  ; 

What  is  it   cries  with  the    crying  of  the 

curlews  ? 
What   comes    apace   on    those    fearful, 

stealthy  feet, 
Back  from  the  chill  sea-deeps,  gliding  o'er 

the  sand-dunes, 

Home  to  the   old   home,  once  again  to 
meet  ? 

What  is  to  say  as  they  gather  round  the 

hearth-stone, 
Flameless   and   dull   as    the   feuds   and 

fears  of  old  ? 
Laughing  and  fleering  still,  menacing  and 

mocking, 

Sadder  than   death  itself,  harsher  than 
the  cold. 

Woe  for  the  ruined  hearth,  black  with  dule 

and  evil, 

Woe  for   the  wrong   and  the   hate   too 
deep  to  die  ! 


Woe  for  the 'deeds  of  the  dreary  days  past 

over, 

Woe  for  the  grief  of  the  gloomy  days 
gone  by ! 

Where  do  they  come  from  ?   furtive  and 

despairing, 
Where  are  they  bound  for  ?  those  that 

gather  there, 
Slow,  with  the  sea-wind  sobbing  through 

the  chambers,  — 

Soft,  with  the  salt  mist  stealing  up  the 
stair  ? 

Names  that  are  nameless  now,  names  of 

dread  and  loathing, 
Banned   and   forbidden   yet,  dark   with 

spot  and  stain  : 

Only  the  old  house  watches  and  remem- 
bers, 
Only  the  old  home  welcomes  them  again. 


TO  MY  CAT 

HALF  loving-kindliness  and  half  disdain, 
Thou  comest  to  my  call  serenely  suave, 
With  humming  speech  and  gracious  ges^ 

tures  grave, 

In  salutation  courtly  and  urbane  ; 
Yet  must  I  humble  me  thy  grace  to  gain, 
For  wiles   may  win  thee  though  no  arts 

enslave, 

And  nowhere  gladly  thou  abidest  save 
Where  naught  disturbs  the  concord  of  thy 

reign. 
Sphinx  of  my  quiet  hearth  !  who  deigii'st 

to  dwell 
Friend    of    my    toil,   companion    of    mine 

ease, 

Thine  is  the  lore  of  Ra  and  Rameses  ; 
That    men    forget   dost   thou    remember 

well, 

Beholden  still  in  blinking  reveries 
With  sombre,  sea-green  gaze  inscrutable. 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

FAREWELL,  my  Youth  !  for  now  we  needs 

must  part, 

For  here  the  paths  divide  ; 
Here  hand  from  hand  must  sever,  heart 

from  heart,  — 
Divergence  deep  and  wide. 


LIZZIE   LITTLE— KATHARINE   HINKSON 


575 


You  '11  wear  no  withered  roses  for  my  sake, 
Though  I  go  mourning  for  you  all  day  long, 
Finding  no  magic  more  in  bower  or  brake, 
No  melody  in  song. 

Gray  Eld  must  travel  in  my  company 
To  seal  this  severance  more  fast  and  sure. 
A  joyless  fellowship,  i'  faith,  't  will  be, 
Yet  must  we  fare  together,  I  and  he, 
Till  I  shall  tread  the  footpath  way  no  more. 

But   when   a   blackbird  pipes   among   the 
boughs, 


On  some  dim,  iridescent  day  in  spring, 
Then  I  may  dream  you  are  remembering 
Our  ancient  vows. 

Or   when   some   joy   foregone,    some   fate 

forsworn, 

Looks  through  the  dark  eyes  of  the  violet, 
I  may  re-cross  the  set,  forbidden  bourne, 

I  may  forget 

Our  long,  long  parting  for  a  little  while, 
Dream    of   the  golden   splendors  of   your 

smile, 
Dream  you  remember  yet. 


.  Slittle 


LIFE 

0     LIFE  !     that    mystery    that    no     man 

knows, 
And    all    men   ask :    the   Arab    from    his 

sands, 

The  Caesar's  self,  lifting  imperial  hands, 
And   the    lone   dweller   where    the    lotus 

blows  ; 

O'er  trackless  tropics,  and  o'er  silent  snows, 
She  dumbly  broods,  that  Sphinx  of  all  the 

lands  ; 


And  if  she  answers,  no  man  understands, 
And  no  cry  breaks  the  blank  of  her  repose. 
But  a  new  form  rose  once  upon  my  pain, 
With   grave,  sad   lips,  but    in   the  eyes  a 

smile 
Of   deepest   meaning   dawning   sweet  and 

slow, 

Lighting  to  service,  and  no  more  in  vain 
I  ask  of  Life,  "  What  art  thou  ?  "  —  as  ere- 

while  — 
For  since  Love  holds  my  hand  I  seem  to 

know  ! 


fcatfjartne  €pnan 


SHEEP  AXD  LAMBS 

ALL  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad, 
The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 

Passed  me  by  on  the  road. 

The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 
Passed  me  by  on  the  road  ; 

All  in  the  April  evening 

1  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 
With  a  weak,  human  cry. 

I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 
Going  meekly  to  die. 


Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  are  sweet, 

Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet, 

But  for  the  Lamb  of  God, 

Up  on  the  hill-top  green, 
Only  a  Cross  of  shame 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

All  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad, 
I  saw  the  sheep  with  their  lambs, 

And  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God. 


576 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


DE  PROFUNDIS 

You  must  be  troubled,  Asthore, 
Because  last  night  you  came 

And  stood  on  the  moonlit  floor, 
And  called  again  my  name. 

In  dreams  I  felt  your  tears, 

In  dreams  mine  eyes  were  wet ; 

0,  dead  for  seven  long  years  ! 
And  can  you  not  forget  ? 
Are  you  not  happy  yet  ? 

The  mass-bell  shall  be  rung, 
The  mass  be  said  and  sung, 
And  God  will  surely  hear  • 
Go  back  and  sleep,  my  dear  ! 

You  went  away  when  you  heard 
The  red  cock's  clarion  crow. 

You  have  given  my  heart  a  sword, 
You  have  given  my  life  a  woe, 

1,  who  your  burden  bore, 

On  whom  your  sorrows  fell  ; 
You  had  to  travel,  Asthore, 

Your  bitter  need  to  tell, 

And  I  —  was  faring  well  ! 
The  mass-bell  shall  be  rung, 
The  mass  be  said  and  sung, 
And  God  will  surely  hear  • 
Go  back  and  sleep,  my  dear  1 

SINGING   STARS 

"  WHAT  sawest  thou,  Orion,  thou  hunter  of 

the  star-lands, 
On  that  night  star-sown  and  azure  when 

thou  cam'st  in  splendor  sweeping, 
And  amid   thy  starry  brethren  from   the 

near  lands  and  the  far  lands 
All  the  night  above  a  stable  on  the  earth 

thy  watch  wert  keeping  ?  " 

"Oh,   I  saw   the    stable    surely,   and   the 

young  Child  and  the  Mother, 
And   the   placid    beasts   still   gazing  with 

their  mild  eyes  full  of  loving. 
And  I  saw  the  trembling  radiance  of  the 

Star,  my  lordliest  brother, 
Light  the  earth  and  all  the  heavens  as  he 

kept  his  guard  unmoving. 

*  There  were  kings  that  came  from  East- 
ward with  their  ivory,  spice,  and 
sendal, 

With  gold  fillets  in  their  dark  hair,  and 
gold  broidered  robes  and  stately, 


And  the  shepherds,  gazing  star-ward,  cvei 

yonder  hill  did  wend  all, 
And  the  silly  sheep  went  meekly,  and  the 

wise  dog  marvelled  greatly. 

"  Oh  we  knew,  we  stars,  the  stable  held 

our  King,  His  glory  shaded, 
That  His  baby  hands  were  poising  all  the 

spheres  and  constellations  ; 
Berenice  shook  her  hair  down,  like  a  shower 

of  Stardust  braided, 
And   Arcturus,   pale   as    silver,   bent    his 

brows  in  adorations. 

"The  stars  sang  all  together,  sang  their 

love-songs  with  the  angels, 
With  the   Cherubim   and   Seraphim  their 

shrilly  trumpets  blended. 
They  have  never  sung  together  since  that 

night  of  great  evangels, 
And  the  young  Child  in  the  manger,  and 

the  time  of  bondage  ended." 


THE   SAD    MOTHER 

0  WHEN  the  half-light  weaves 
Wild  shadows  on  the  floor, 

How  ghostly  come  the  withered  leaves 
Stealing  about  my  door  ! 

1  sit  and  hold  my  breath, 
Lone  in  the  lonely  house  ; 

Naught  breaks  the  silence  still  as  death, 
Only  a  creeping  mouse. 

The  patter  of  leaves,  it  may  be, 

But  liker  patter  of  feet, 
The  small  feet  of  my  own  baby 

That  never  felt  the  heat. 

The  small  feet  of  my  son, 

Cold  as  the  graveyard  sod  ; 
My  little,  dumb,  unchristened  one 

That  may  not  win  to  God. 

"  Come  in,  dear  babe,"  I  cry, 

Opening  the  door  so  wide. 
The  leaves  go  stealing  softly  by  ; 

How  dark  it  is  outside  ! 

And  though  I  kneel  and  pray 
Long  on  the  threshold-stone, 

The  little  feet  press  on  their  way, 
And  I  am  ever  alone. 


MAY   KENDALL 


577 


THE  DEAD  COACH 

AT  night  when  sick  folk  wakeful  lie, 
I  heard  the  dead  coach  passing  by, 
And  heard  it  passing  wild  and  fleet, 
And  knew  iny  time  was  come  not  yet. 

Click-clack,  click-clack,  the  hoofs  went  past, 
Who  takes  the  dead  coach  travels  fast, 
On  and  away  through  the  wild  night, 
The  dead  must  rest  ere  morning  light. 

If  one  might  follow  on  its  track 
The  coach  and  horses,  midnight  black, 
Within  should  sit  a  shape  of  doom 
That  beckons  one  and  all  to  come. 


God  pity  them  to-night  who  wait 
To  hear  the  dead  coach  at  their  gate, 
And  him   who    hears,  though    sense   be 

dim, 
The  mournful  dead  coach  stop  for  him. 

He  shall  go  down  with  a  still  face; 
And  mount  the  steps  and  take  his  place, 
The  door  be  shut,  the  order  said  ! 
How  fast  the  pace  is  with  the  dead  ! 

Click-clack,  click-clack,  the  hour  is  chill, 
The  dead  coach  climbs  the  distant  hill. 
Now,  God,  the  Father  of  us  all, 
Wipe  Thou  the  widow's  tears  that  fall ! 


fcentiafl 


A   PURE   HYPOTHESIS 

(A  Lover,  in  Four-dimensioned  space,  describes 
a  Dream.). 

AH,  love,  the  teacher  we  decried, 

That  erudite  professor  grim, 
In  mathematics  drenched  and  dyed, 

Too  hastily  we  scouted  him. 
He  said  :  "  The  bounds  of  Time  and  Space, 

The  categories  we  revere, 
May  be  in  quite  another  case 

In  quite  another  sphere." 

He  told  us  :  "  Science  can  conceive 

A  race  whose  feeble  comprehension 
Can't  be  persuaded  to  believe 

That   there   exists   our   Fourth    Dimen- 
sion, 
Whom  Time  and  Space  for  ever  balk  ; 

But  of  these  beings  incomplete, 
Whether  upon  their  heads  they  walk 

Or  stand  upon  their  feet  — 

"  We  cannot  tell,  we  do  not  know, 

Imagination  stops  confounded  ; 
We  can  but  say  '  It  may  be  so,' 

To  every  theory  propounded." 
Too  glad  were  we  in  this  our  scheme 

Of  things,  his  notions  to  embrace,  — 
But  —  I  have  dreamed  an  awful  dream 

Of  Three-dimensioned  Space  ! 


I  dreamed  —  the  horror  seemed  to  stun 

My  logical  perception  strong  — 
That  everything  beneath  the  sun 

Was  so  unutterably  wrong. 
I    thought  —  what    words    can    I    com« 
mand  ?  — 

That  nothing  ever  did  come  right. 
No  wronder  you  can't  understand  : 

/  could  not,  till  last  night ! 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  recall 

The  horror  of  those  novel  heavens, 
Where  Present,  Past,  and  Future  all 

Appeared  at  sixes  and  at  sevens, 
Where  Capital  and  Labor  fought, 

And,  in  the  nightmare  of  the  mind, 
No  contradictories  were  thought 

As  truthfully  combined ! 

Nay,  in  that  dream- distorted  clime, 

These  fatal  wilds  I  wandered  through, 
The  boundaries  of  Space  and  Time 

Had  got  most  frightfully  askew. 
"  What  t*  '  askew '  ?  "  my  love,  you  cry  ; 

I  cannot  answer,  can't  portray  ; 
The  sense  of  Everything  awry 

No  language  can  convey. 

I  can't  tell  what  my  words  denote, 
I  know  not  what  my  phrases  mean ; 

Inexplicable  terrors  float 

Before  this  spirit  once  serene. 


578 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Ah,  what  if  on  some  lurid  star 
There  should  exist  a  hapless  race, 

Who  live  and  love,  who  think  and  are, 
In  Three-dimensioned  Space  ! 


A  BOARD  SCHOOL  PASTORAL 

ALONE  I  stay  ;  for  I  am  lame, 
I  cannot  join  them  at  the  game, 

The  lads  and  lasses  ; 
But  many  a  summer  holiday 
I  sit  apart  and  watch  them  play, 
And  well  I  know  :  my  heart  can  say, 

When  Ella  passes. 

Of  all  the  maidens  in  the  place, 
'T  is  Ella  has  the  sunniest  face, 

Her  eyes  are  clearest. 
Of  all  the  girls,  or  here  or  there, 
'T  is  Ella's  voice  is  soft  and  rare, 
And  Ella  has  the  darkest  hair, 

And  Ella  's  dearest. 

Oh,  strong  the  lads  for  bat  or  ball, 
But  I  in  wit  am  first  of  all 

The  master  praises. 
The  master's  mien  is  grave  and  wise  ; 
But,  while  I  look  into  his  eyes, 
My  heart,  that  o'er  the  schoolroom  flies, 

At  Ella 


And  Hal  's  below  me  every  day  ; 
For  Hal  is  wild,  and  he  is  gay, 

He  loves  not  learning. 
But  when  the  swiftest  runners  meet, 
Oh,  who  but  Hal  is  proud  and  fleet, 
And  there  's  a  smile  I  know  will  greet 

His  glad  returning. 

They  call  me  moody,  dull,  and  blind, 
They  say  with  books  I  maze  my  mind, 

The  lads  and  lasses  ; 
But  little  do  they  know  —  ah  me  ! 
How  with  my  book  upon  my  knee 
I  dream  and  dream,  but  ever  see 

Where  Ella  passes. 


A  LEGEND 

AY,  an  old  story,  yet  it  might 
Have  truth  in  it  —  who  knows  ? 

Of  the  heroine's  breaking  down  one  night 
Jnst  ere  the  curtain  rose. 


And  suddenly,  when  fear  and  doubt 

Had  shaken  every  heart, 
There  stepped  an  unknown  actress  out 

To  take  the  heroine's  part. 

But  oh  the  magic  of  her  face, 

And  oh  the  songs  she  sung, 
And  oh  the  rapture  in  the  place, 

And  oh  the  flowers  they  flung  ! 

But  she  never  stooped  :  they  lay  all  night 

As  when  she  turned  away 
And  left  them  —  and  the  saddest  light 

Shone  in  her  eyes  of  gray. 

She  gave  a  smile  in  glancing  round, 
And  sighed,  one  fancied,  then  — 

But  never  they  knew  where  she  was  boundj 
Or  saw  her  face  again. 

But  the  old  prompter,  gray  and  frail, 
They  heard  him  murmur  low  : 

"  It  only  could  be  Meg  Coverdale, 
Died  thirty  years  ago, 

"  In  that  old  part  who  took  the  town  ; 

And  she  was  fair,  as  fair 
As  when  they  shut  the  coffin  down 

On  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair  ; 

"  And  it  was  n't  hard  to  understand 

How  a  lass  so  fair  as  she 
Could  never  rest  in  the  Promised  Land 

Where  none  but  angels  be." 


THE  PAGE  OF   LANCELOT 

So  I  arm  thee  for  the  final  night, 

And  for  thy  one  defeat  ; 
For  God  upon  his  side  shall  fight 

When  thou  and  he  shall  meet. 
I  know,  for  good  or  evil,  thine 

Will  be  a  well-fought  field  — 
For  good  or  evil,  master  mine, 

If  I  may  bear  thy  shield  ! 

Now  art  thou  the  unfaithfullest 

Of  all  that  bore  the  vow  — 
Yet  some  there  are  that  love  thee  best, 

Most  honor,  even  now. 
I  see  the  face  I  held  divine 

Ah,  yet  divine  revealed  ! 
For  good  or  evil,  master  mine, 

If  I  may  bear  thy  shield  ! 


AMY  LEVY— ELIZABETH   CRAIGMYLE 


579 


A  LONDON  PLANE-TREE 

GREEN  is  the  plane-tree  in  the  square, 

The  other  trees  are  brown  ; 
They  droop  and  pine  for  country  air  ; 

The  plane-tree  loves  the  town. 

Here  from  my  garret-pane,  I  mark 
The  plane-tree  bud  and  blow, 

Shed  her  recuperative  bark, 
And  spread  her  shade  below. 

Among  her  branches,  in  and  out, 

The  city  breezes  play  ; 
The  dun  fog  wraps  her  round  about ; 

Above,  the  smoke  curls  gray. 

Others  the  country  take  for  choice, 
And  hold  the  town  in  scorn  ; 

But  she  has  listened  to  the  voice 
On  city  breezes  borne. 

BETWEEN  THE  SHOWERS 

BETWEEN  the  showers  I  went  my  way, 
The   glistening   street  was   bright   with 

flowers  ; 

It  seemed  that  March  had  turned  to  May 
Between  the  showers. 

Above  the  shining  roofs  and  towers 

The  blue  broke  forth  athwart  the  gray  ; 
Birds  carolled  in  their  leafless  bowers. 

Hither  and  thither,  swift  and  gay, 

The  people  chased  the  changeful  hours  ; 
And  you,  you  passed  and  smiled  that  day, 
Between  the  showers. 


IN  THE  MILE  END  ROAD 

How  like  her  !     But  't  is  she  herself, 
Comes  up  the  crowded  street, 

How  little  did  I  think,  the  morn, 
My  only  love  to  meet ! 

Whose  else  that  motion  and  that  mien  ? 

Whose  else  that  airy  tread  ? 
For  one  strange  moment  I  forgot 

My  only  love  was  dead. 


TO  VERNON   LEE 

ON    Bellosguardo,    when     the    year   was 

young, 

We  wandered,  seeking  for  the  daffodil 
And  dark  anemone,  whose  purples  fill 
The  peasant's  plot,  between  the  corn-shoots 

sprung. 

Over  the  gray,  low  wall  the  olive  flung 
Her   deeper   grayness  ;    far    off,    hill    on 

hill 
Sloped  to  the  sky,  which,  pearlv-pale  and 

still, 
Above  the  large  and  luminous  landscape 

hung. 
A  snowy  blackthorn  flowered  beyond  my 

reach  ; 
You  broke   a  branch  and   gave  it   to   me 

there  ; 

I  found  for  you  a  scarlet  blossom  rare. 
Thereby    ran    on    of    Art    and    Life    our 

speech  ; 
And  of  the  gifts  the  gods  had  given  to 

each  — 
Hope  unto  you,  and  unto  me  Despair. 


SOLWAY  SANDS 

TWA  race  doon  by  the  Gatehope-Slack, 
When  nicht  is  wearin'  near  to  the  noon, 

He  on  the  gray  and  she  on  the  black ; 

Her  faither  and  brithers  are  hard  on  the 

track, 
And  Solway  sands  are  white  in  the  moon. 


Strong  is  their  love,  but  their  loves  may  be 

twined 

Or  ever  the  lady  grant  love's  boon  ; 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  hold  chase  behind, 
Their   shouts   and   curses   ring   down   the 

wind, 
And  Solway  sands  stretch  white  in  the 


58o 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Annan  rins  fu'  frae  brae  to  bank, 

But    Katharine's    lover   is    nae   coward 

loon  ; 

Into  the  good  gray's  foam-flecked  flank 
lu  the  rowels  o'  the  gray  steel  sank, 

And   Solway   sands   wait   white    in  the 
moon. 

The  water 's  up  to  his  bandelier, 

It 's  up  to  the  waist  o'  her  satin  goon  ; 
"  We  '11  win  to  the  shore  and  never  fear, 
There  's  never  a  Elliot  will  follow  here," 
And   Solway   sands   glint  white    in   the 
moon. 

The    steeds    and    the    riders    are    safely 

o'er, 
Through  the  swirl  o'  waters  that  waste 

and  droon  ; 
"  We   try   the    swimming   this    night    no 

more, 
The  boat  is  waiting  on  Solway  shore, 

And    Solway  sands   shine  white   in  the 
moon." 

Through  the  gray  tide-water  their  horses 

splash, 

Through  the  salt  pools  left  on  the  sea- 
sand  broon  ; 

Then  on  to  the  waiting  boat  they  dash,  — 


Their  midnight  riding  is  wild  and  rash, 
And  Solway  sands  gleam  white  in  the 
moon. 

"  To-night  the  boat's  rough  deck  I  trow, 

Next  night  the  bridal  in  Carlisle  toon." 
But   nights   shall   come   and  nights    shall 

go. 

O'er   their  bride-bed  deep   in   the   quick- 
sand's flow, 

And  Solway  sands   stand  white   in   the 
moon. 

The  boat  rocks  light  on  the  Solway  wave, 

The  turn  of  the  tide  is  coming  soon, 
But  slowly  they  sink  in  their  ghastly  grave, 
Wrapped  round  in  the  dark  with  none  to 

save, 

And  Solway  sands  laugh  white   in  the 
moon. 

The   cloud   wrack   breaks,   and   the   stars 

shine  fair, 
The   sea's    voice   sounds    like   a   mystic 

rune, 

The  skipper  looks  out,  but  none  are  there, 
The   glimmering    coast-line    is   wide   and 

bare, 

And    Solway   Sands    are   white   in   the 
moon. 


LONDON  FEAST 

O  WHERE  do  you  go,  and  what 's  your  will, 
My  sunburnt  herdsmen  of  the  hill, 

That  leave  your  herds  no  pastoral  priest, 
And  take  the  road  where,  sad  and  dun, 
The  smoke-cloud  drapes  the  April  sun  ?  — 
"  We  go  to  taste 
Of  London  feast. " 

0  country-lads,  this  April  tide, 
Why  do  you  leave  the  country-side  ? 

The   new-come    Spring    stirs   bird    and 

beast  ; 

The  winter  storm  is  over  now, 
And  melted  the  December  snow  :  — 
"  We  go  to  taste 
Of  London  feast  I  " 


O  village  maidens,  April  girls, 
With  dancing  eyes  and  country  curls, 

Is  April  naught,  the  maypole  ceased, 
That  you  must  leave  the  daisied  places 
That  painted  all  your  pretty  faces  ?  — 
"  We  go  to  taste 
Of  London  feast." 

And  ancient  dalesmen  of  the  north, 

That  leave  your  dales,  and  the  sweet  brown 

earth, 

Are  country  acres  so  decreased, 
And  Cumbrian  fells  no  longer  ringing 
With  bleating  lambs,  and  blackbirds  sing' 
ing  ?  - 

"  We  go  to  taste 
Of  London  feast" 


ERNEST   RHYS 


0  sailor  lads,  that  love  the  sea, 
Are  you,  too,  of  this  company  ?  — 

The  shifting  wind  's  no  longer  east  ; 
Yet  you  have  put  the  helm  about, 
To  come  ashore,  and  join  the  rout  ?  — 

"  We  go  to  taste 

Of  London  feast." 

Too  late,  my  golden  mariners  ! 

1  have  seen  there  these  many  years, 

How  Most   grew  more,  and  less   grew 

Least ; 

And  now  you  go  too  late  ;  the  board 
Cannot  one  crumb  to  you  afford  : 
You  cannot  taste 
Of  London  feast. 

Too  late,  dear  children  of  the  sun  ; 
For  London  Feast  is  past  and  gone  ! 

I  sat  it  out,  and  now  released 
Make  westward  from  its  weary  gate. 
Fools  and  unwise,  you  are  too  late  : 
You  cannot  taste 
Of  London  feast. 

They  did  not  heed,  they  would  not  stay  ; 
I  saw  the  dust  on  London  way 

By  denser  thousands  still  increased  : 
My  cry  was  vain.     As  they  went  by 
Their  murmur  ran,  for  all  reply  :  — 
"  We  go  to  taste 
Of  London  feast." 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

WALES    England    wed ;    so    I   was   bred. 

'T  was    merry    London    gave    me 

breath. 
I   dreamt  of   love,   and   fame  :    I   strove. 

But   Ireland   taught    me   love   was 

best  : 
And   Irish    eyes,   and   London   cries,   and 

streams   of   Wales,    may    tell    the 

rest. 
What  more  than  these  I  asked  of  life,  I 

am  content  to  have  from  Death. 


DIANA 

THIS   new   Diana  makes   weak    men   her 

prey, 

And,  making   captive,    still  would   fain 
pursue, 


And  still  would  keep,  and  still  would  drive 

away,  — 
So  day  by  day, 

Hate,    hunt,   do  murder,    and    yet   love 
them  too  ; 

Ah,  dear  Diana  ! 

'T  were  well,  poor  fools,  to  shun  her  cruel 

spear, 
More  fatal  far  than  that  which  slew  of 

old; 
Her   spear   is   wit,  that  she  so   brings  tc 

bear; 

Then  laughs  to  hear 

When  it  has  struck,  and  one  more  heart 
runs  cold  ; 

Ah,  dear  Diana ! 

Be   wise,   O   fools,    and    shun    her    cruel 

eyes, 
Which,  when  you  see,  you  straight  must 

love,  to  death. 
This  new  Diana  has  such  sorceries, 

Who  loves  her,  dies  ; 
And   dying,   cries   still,  with   his   latest 
breath, — 

Ah,  dear  Diana  ! 


BRECHVA'S  HARP  SONG 

LITTLE  harp,  at  thy  cry, 

He  shall  come  in  good  time  ; 

And  thy  sword-song  on  high, 
High  shall  chime. 

Little  harp,  in  his  brain 
Is  the  fire  ;  in  his  hand 

Are  the  sword  and  the  rein 
Of  command. 

Little  harp,  like  the  wind 

Is  his  strength  ;  like  thy  song 

Are  his  words,  to  unbind 
Wales  ere  long  ! 

Little  harp,  if  his  name 
Be  unknown,  ye  shall  hear 

How  the  stars  tell  his  fame 
Far  and  near. 

Little  harp,  if  unknown 
He  come,  ye  shall  sing 

When  Eryri  shall  throne 
Him  All  King  ! 


582 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


WHITE  ROSES 

No  sleep  like  hers,  no  rest, 
In  all  the  earth  to-night  : 

Upon  her  whiter  breast 
Our  roses  lie  so  light. 

She  had  no  sins  to  lose, 

As  some  might  say  ; 
But  calmly  keeps  her  pale  repose 

Till  God's  good  day. 

SONG  OF  THE  WULFSHAW 
LARCHES 

HEART  of  Earth,  let  us  be  gone, 

From  this  rock  where  we  have  stayed 

While  the  sun  has  risen  and  shone 

Ten  thousand  times,  and  thrown  our  shade 

Always  in  the  self-same  place. 

Now  the  night  draws  on  apace  : 
The  day  is  dying  on  the  height, 


The   wind   brings    cold    sea  -  fragrance 

here, 

And  cries,  and  restless  murmurings, 
Now  night  is  near,  — 
Of  wings  and  feet  that  take  to  flight, 
Of  furry  feet  and  feathery  wings 
That  take  their  joyous  flight  at  will 
Away  and  over  the  hiding  hill, 
And  into  the  land  where  the  sun  has 

fled. 

O  let  us  go,  as  they  have  sped,  — 
The    soft    swift    shapes    that    left    us 

here, 

The  gentle  things  that  came  and  went 
And  left  us  in  imprisonment ! 
Let  us  be  gone,  as  they  have  gone, 
Away,  and  into  the  hidden  lands  ;  — • 
From  rock  and  turf  our  roots  uptear, 
Break  from  the  clinging  keeping  bands, 
Out  of  this  long  imprisoning  break  ; 
At  last,  our  sunward  journey  take, 
And  far,  to-night,  and  farther  on,  — 
Heart  of  Earth,  let  us  be  gone  ! 


KNAPWEED 

BY  copse  and  hedgerow,  waste  and  wall, 

He  thrusts  his  cushions  red  ; 
O'er  burdock  rank,  o'er  thistles  tall, 

He  rears  his  hardy  head  : 
Within,  without,  the  strong  leaves  press, 

He  screens  the  mossy  stone, 
Lord  of  a  narrow  wilderness, 

Self-centred  and  alone. 

He  numbers  no  observant  friends, 

He  soothes  no  childish  woes, 
Yet  nature  nurtures  him,  and  tends 

As  duly  as  the  rose  ; 
He  drinks  the  blessed  dew  of  heaven, 

The  wind  is  in  his  ears, 
To  guard  his  growth  the  planets  seven 

Swing  in  their  airy  spheres. 

The  spirits  of  the  fields  and  woods 

Throb  in  his  sturdy  veins  : 
He  drinks  the  secret,  stealing  floods, 

And  swills  the  volleying  rains  : 
&nd   when   the    birds'   note   showers   and 
breaks 

The  wood's  green  heart  within, 


He  stirs  his  plumy  brow  and  wakes 
To  draw  the  sunlight  in. 

Mute  sheep  that  pull  the  grasses  soft 

Crop  close  and  pass  him  by, 
Until  he  stands  alone,  aloft, 

In  surly  majesty. 
No  fly  so  keen,  no  bee  so  bold, 

To  pierce  that  knotted  zone, 
He  frowns  as  though  he  guarded  gold, 

And  yet  he  garners  none. 

And  so  when  autumn  winds  blow  late, 

And  whirl  the  chilly  wave, 
He  bows  before  the  common  fate, 

And  drops  beside  his  grave. 
None  ever  owed  him  thanks  or  said 

"  A  gift  of  gracious  heaven." 
Down  in  the  mire  he  droops  his  head  ; 

Forgotten,  not  forgiven. 

Smile  on,  brave  weed  !  let  none  inquire 
What  made  or  bade  thee  rise  : 

Toss  thy  tough  fingers  high  and  higher 
To  flout  the  drenching  skies. 

Let  others  toil  for  others'  good, 
And  miss  or  mar  their  own  ; 


ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 


583 


Thou  hast  brave  health,  and  fortitude 
To  live  and  die  alone  ! 

REALISM 

AND  truth,  you  say,  is  all  divine  ; 

'T  is  truth  we  live  by  ;  let  her  drench 
The  shuddering  heart  like  potent  wine  ; 

No  matter  how  she  wreck  or  wrench 

The  gracious  instincts  from  their  throne, 
Or  steep  the  virgin  soul  in  tears  ;  — 

No  matter  ;  let  her  learn  her  own 
Enormities,  her  vilest  fears, 

And  sound  the  sickliest  depths  of  crime, 
And  creep  through  roaring  drains  of  woe, 

To  soar  at  last,  unstained,  sublime, 

Knowing  the  worst  that  man  can  know  ; 

And  having  won  the  firmer  ground, 
When  loathing  quickens  pity's  eyes, 

Still  lean  and  beckon  underground, 
And  tempt  a  struggling  foot  to  rise. 

Well,  well,  it  is  the  stronger  way  ! 

Heroic  stuff  is  hardly  made  ; 
But  one,  who  dallies  with  dismay, 

Admires  your  boldness,  half -afraid. 

He  deems  that  knowledge,  bitter-sweet, 
Can  rust  and  rot  the  bars  of  right, 

Till  weakness  sets  her  trembling  feet 
Across  the  threshold  of  the  night. 

She  peers,  she  ventures  ;  growing  bold, 
She  breathes  the  enervating  air, 

And  shuns  the  aspiring  summits,  cold 
And  silent,  where  the  dawn  is  fair. 

She  wonders,  aching  to  be  free, 

Too  soft  to  burst  the  uncertain  band, 

Till  chains  of  drear  fatality 
Arrest  the  feeble  willing  hand. 

Nay,  let  the  stainless  eye  of  youth 
Be  blind  to  that  bewildering  light ! 

When  faith  and  virtue  falter,  truth 
Is  handmaid  to  the  hags  of  night. 

AN  ENGLISH  SHELL 

I  WAS  an  English  shell, 

Cunningly  made  and  well, 

With  a  heart  of  lire  in  an  iron  frame, 


Ready  to  break  in  fury  and  flame, 
Slice  through  the  ranks  my  raging  way, 
Dying  myself,  to  slay. 

Out  from  the  heart  of  the  battle-ship, 
Yelling  a  song  of  death,  I  rose, 
Brake  from  the  cannon's  smoky  lip 

Into  a  land  of  foes  :  — 
How  was  I  baffled  ?     I  soared  and  sank 
Over  the  bastion,  across  the  hill, 
Into  the  lap  of  a  grassy  bank, 
Impotent  there  to  kill. 
Slowly  the  thunder  died  away  ;  — 
My  merry  comrades,  how  you  roared, 
Loud  and  jubilant,  while  I  lay 

Sunk  in  the  slothful  sward  ! 
Peace  came  back  with  her  corn  and  wine, 
Smiling  faint  with  a  bleeding  breast, 
While  in  the  offing,  over  the  brine 

My  battle-ship  steered  to  the  West. 

Then  were  the  long  slopes  crowned  again 
With  clustering  vines  and  waving  grain, 
Winter  by  winter  the  stealing  rain 

Fretted  me  rotting  there. 
Suddenly  once  as  I  sadly  slept, 
Tinkling,  the  slow  team  over  me  stept,  — 
Jarring  the  ploughshare,  —  I  was  swept 

Into  the  breezy  air. 
Why  did  he  tempt  me  ?     I  had  lain 
Year  by  year  in  the  peaceful  rain, 
Till  my  lionlike  heart  had  grown 
Dull  and  motionless,  heavy  as  stone  ;  — 
Mocking,  he  smote  me  :  — 

Then  I  leapt 

Out  in  my  anger,  and  screamed  and  swept 
Him  as  he  laughed  in  a  storm  of  blood, 
Shattered  sinew  and  flying  brain, 
Brake  the  cottage  and  scarred  the  wood, 

Roaring  across  the  plain. 
How  should  you  blame  me  ?     Ay,  't  was- 

peace ! 

War  was  the  word  I  had  learned  to  know ; — 
Think  you,  I  was  an  English  shell, 
Trained  one  lesson  alone  to  spell  — 
I  had  vowed  as  I  lay  below, 
Vowed  to  perish  and  find  release 

Slaying  an  English  foe. 

AFTER  CONSTRUING 

LORD  CAESAR,  when  you  sternly  wrote 
The  story  of  your  grim  campaigns, 

And  watched  the  ragged  smoke-wreath  float 
Above  the  burning  plains, 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Amid  the  impenetrable  wood, 
Amid  the  camp's  incessant  hum, 

At  eve,  beside  the  tumbling  flood 
In  high  Avaricum, 

You  little  recked,  imperious  head, 

When  shrilled  your  shattering  trumpet's 
noise, 

Your  frigid  sections  would  be  read 
By  bright-eyed  English  boys. 

Ah  me  !  who  penetrates  to-day 
The  secret  of  your  deep  designs  ? 

Your  sovereign  visions,  as  you  lay 
Amid  the  sleeping  lines  ? 

The  Mantuan  singer  pleading  stands  ; 

From  century  to  century 
He  leans  and  reaches  wistful  hands, 

And  cannot  bear  to  die. 


But  you  are  silent,  secret,  proud, 
No  smile  upon  your  haggard  face, 

As    when    you    eyed    the    murderous 

crowd 
Beside  the  statue's  base. 

I  marvel  :  that  Titanic  heart 

Beats  strongly  through  the  arid  page, 
And  we,  self-conscious  sons  of  art, 

In  this  bewildering  age, 

Like  dizzy  revellers  stumbling  out 
Upon  the  pure  and  peaceful  night, 

Are  sobered  into  troubled  doubt, 
As  swims  across  our  sight 

The  ray  of  that  sequestered  sun, 
Far  in  the  illimitable  blue,  — 

The  dream  of  all  you  left  undone, 
Of  all  you  dared  to  do. 


SONG 

'THIS  peach  is  pink  with  such  a  pink 

As  suits  the  peach  divinely  ; 
The'  cunning  color  rarely  spread 

Fades  to  the  yellow  finely  ; 
But  where  to  spy  the  truest  pink 
Is  in  my  Love's  soft  cheek,  I  think. 

The  snowdrop,  child  of  windy  March, 
Doth  glory  in  her  whiteness  ; 

Her  golden  neighbors,  crocuses, 
Unenvious  praise  her  brightness  ! 

J5ut  I  do  know  where,  out  of  sight, 
My  sweetheart  keeps  a  warmer  white. 


SONG 

WAIT  but  a  little  while  — 

The  bird  will  bring 
A  heart  in  tune  for  melodies 

Unto  the  spring, 
Till  he  who  's  in  the  cedar  there 
Is  moved  to  trill  a  song  so  rare, 
And  pipe  her  fair. 

Wait  but  a  little  while  — 
The  bud  will  break  ; 


The  inner  rose  will  open  and  glow 

For  summer's  sake  ; 
Fond  bees  will  lodge  within  her  breast 
Till  she  herself  is  plucked  and  prest 
Where  I  would  rest. 

Wait  but  a  little  while  — 

The  maid  will  grow 
Gracious  with  lips  and  hands  to  thee, 

With  breast  of  snow. 
To-day  Love  's  mute,  but  time  hath  sown 
A  soul  in  her  to  match  thine  own, 
Though  yet  ungrown. 


A  PRIEST 

NATURK  and  he  went  ever  hand  in  hand 
Across  the  hills  and  down  the  lonely  lane  ; 
They    captured    starry    shells    upon    the 

strand 

And  lay  enchanted  by  the  musing  main. 
So  She,  who  loved  him  for  his  love  of  her, 
Made  him  the  heir  to  traceries  and  signs 
On  tiny  children  nigh  too  small  to  stir 
In   great   green   plains   of    hazel   leaf    or 

vines. 

She  taught  the  trouble  of  the  nightingale  ; 
Revealed  the  velvet  secret  of  the  rose  ; 


NORMAN   GALE 


585 


She  breathed  divinity  into  his  heart, 
That  rare  divinity  of  watching  those 
Slow  growths  that  make  a  nettle  learn  to 

dart 
The  puny  poison  of  its  little  throes. 

Her  miracles  of  motion,  butterflies, 
Rubies  and  sapphires  skimming  lily-crests, 
Carved  on  a  yellow  petal  with  their  eyes 
Tranced  by  the  beauty  of  their  powdered 

breasts, 

Seen  in  the  mirror  of  a  drop  of  dew, 
He  loved  as  friends  and  as  a  friend  he  knew. 
The  dust  of  gold  and  scarlet  underwings 
More  precious  was  to  him  than  nuggets  torn 
From  all  invaded  treasure-crypts  of  time, 
And  every  floating,  painted,  silver  beam 
Drew   him   to   roses   where    it    stayed    to 

dream, 
Or  down  sweet  avenues  of  scented  lime. 

And  Nature  trained  him  tenderly  to  know 
The  rain  of  melodies  in  coverts  heard. 
Let  him  but  catch  the  cadences  that  flow 
From  hollybush  or  lilac,  elm  or  sloe, 
And  he  would  mate  the  music  with  the  bird. 
The  faintest  song  a  redstart  ever  sang 
Was  redstart's  piping,  and  the  whitethroat 

knew 

No  cunning  trill,  no  mazy  shake  that  rang 
Doubtful  on  ears  unaided  by  the  view. 

But  in  his  glory,  as  a  young  pure  priest 
In  that  great  temple,  only  roofed  by  stars, 
An  angel  hastened  from  the  sacred  East 
To  reap  the  wisest  and  to  leave  the  least. 
And  as  he  moaned  upon  the  couch  of  death, 
Breathing  away  his  little  share  of  breath, 
All  suddenly  he  sprang  upright  in  bed  ! 
Life,  like  a  ray,  poured  fresh  into  his  face, 
Flooding  the  hollow  cheeks  with  passing 

grace. 

He  listened  long,  then  pointed  up  above  ; 
Laughed  a  low  laugh  of  boundless  joy  and 

love  — 

That  it'as  a  plover  called,  he  softly  said, 
And   on    his    wife's    breast   fell,    serenely 

dead  ! 

THE  COUNTRY  FAITH 

HERE  in  the  country's  heart 
Where  the  grass  is  green, 
Life  is  the  same  sweet  life 
As  it  e'er  hath  been. 


Trust  in  a  God  still  lives, 
And  the  bell  at  morn 
Floats  with  a  thought  of  God 
O'er  the  rising  corn. 

God  comes  down  in  the  rain, 
And  the  crop  grows  tall  — 
This  is  the  country  faith, 
And  the  best  of  all ! 


A  DEAD  FRIEND 

IT  hardly  seems  that  he  is  dead, 

So  strange  it  is  that  we  are  here 
Beneath  this  great  blue  shell  of  sky 

With  apple-bloom  and  pear  : 
It  scarce  seems  true  that  we  can  note 

The  bursting  rosebud's  edge  of  flame, 
Or  watch  the  blackbird's  swelling  throat 

While  he  is  but  a  name. 

No  more  the  chaffinch  at  his  step 

Pipes  suddenly  her  shrill  surprise, 
For  in  an  ecstasy  of  sleep 

Unconsciously  he  lies, 
Not  knowing  that  the  sweet  brown  lark 

From  off  her  bosom's  feathery  lace 
Shakes  down  the  dewdrop  in  her  flight 

To  fall  upon  his  face. 


CONTENT 

THOUGH  singing  but  the  shy  and  sweet 

Untrod  by  multitudes  of  feet, 

Songs  bounded  by  the  brook  and  wheat, 

I  have  not  failed  in  this, 
The  only  lure  my  woodland  note, 
To  win  all  England's  whitest  throat  ! 
0  bards  in  gold  and  fire  who  wrote, 

Be  yours  all  other  bliss  ! 


THE  FIRST  KISS 

ON  Helen's  heart  the  day  were  night  I 
But  I  may  not  adventure  there  : 

Her  breast  is  guarded  by  a  right, 
And  she  is  true  as  fair. 

And  though  in  happy  days  her  eyes 

The  glow  within  mine  own  could  please, 

She  's  purer  than  the  babe  who  cries 
For  empire  on  her  knees. 


586 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Her  love  is  for  her  lord  and  child, 
And  unto  them  belongs  her  snow  ; 

But  none  can  rob  me  of  her  wild 
Young  kiss  of  long  ago  ! 

TO  MY  BROTHERS 

O  BROTHERS,  who  must  ache  and  stoop 

O'er  wordy  tasks  in  London  town, 
How  scantly  Laura  trips  for  you  — 

A  poem  in  a  gown  ! 
How  rare  if  Grub-street  grew  a  lawn  ! 

How  sweet  if  Nature's  lap  could  spare 
A  dandelion  for  the  Strand, 

A  cowslip  for  Mayfair  ! 

But  here,  from  immaterial  lyres, 

There  rings  in  easy  confidence 
The  blackbird's  bright  philosophy 

On  apple-spray  or  fence  : 
For  ploughmen  wending  home  from  toil 

Some  patriot  thrush  outpours  his  lay, 
And  voices,  wildly  eloquent, 

The  diary  of  his  day. 

These  living  lyrics  you  may  hear 

Remembering  the  lane's  romance, 
All  hung  in  wicker  heels  to  chirp 

Thin  ghosts  of  utterance  : 
But  where  the  gusts  of  liberty 

Make  Ragged  Robin  wisely  bend, 
They  quicken  hedgerows  with  their  song, 

Melodiously  unpenned. 

If  souls  of  mighty  singers  leave 

The  vacant  body  to  its  hush, 
Does  Shelley  linger  in  the  lark, 

Or  Keats  possess  the  thrush  ? 
The  end  is  undecaying  doubt, 

And  in  some  blackbird's  bosom  still 


Great  Tennyson  may  sweeten  eve 
And  whistle  on  the  hill. 

Come,  brothers,  to  this  clean  delight, 

And  watch  the  velvet-headed  tit. 
Here  's  honest  sorrel  in  the  grass 

And  sturdy  cuckoo-spit  : 
What  shepherds  hear  you  shall  not  miss, 

And  at  deliverance  of  dawn 
Shall  see  a  miracle  of  bloom 

Across  the  sparkling  lawn. 

The  forest  musically  begs 

To  fan  you  with  its  leafy  love  j 
Oh,  fall  asleep  upon  this  moss 

Entreated  by  the  dove  ! 
Here  shall  that  sweet  Conservative, 

Dear  Mother  Nature,  lend  to  you 
Her  lovely  rural  elements 

Beneath  the  primal  blue. 

0  brothers,  who  must  ache  and  stoop 

O'er  wordy  tasks  in  London  town, 
How  scantly  Laura  trips  for  you  — 

A  poem  in  a  gown  ! 
How  good  if  Fleet-street  grew  a  lawn  ! 

How  sweet  if  garden-plots  could  spare 
A  bed  of  cloves  to  scent  the  Strand, 

A  pansy  for  Mayfair  ! 

DAWN  AND  DARK 

GOD  with  His  million  cares 
Went  to  the  left  or  right, 
Leaving  our  world  ;  and  the  day 
Grew  night. 

Back  from  a  sphere  He  came 

.Over  a  starry  lawn, 
Looked  at  our  world  ;  and  the  dark 
Grew  dawn. 


3L  C. 

THE  SPLENDID  SPUR 

NOT  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound 

Nor  on  a  woman's  finger  twin'd, 
May  gold  from  the  deriding  ground 
Keep  sacred  that  we  sacred  bind : 
Only  the  heel 
Of  splendid  steel 


Shall  stand  secure  on  sliding  fate, 
When  golden  navies  weep  their  freight. 

The  scarlet  hat,  the  laurell'd  stave 

Are    .measures,    not    the    springs,    of 
worth ; 

In  a  wife's  lap,  as  in  a  grave, 

Man's  airy  notions  mix  with  earth. 


JANE  BARLOW 


587 


Seek  other  spur 

Bravely  to  stir 

The  dust  in  this  loud  world,  and  tread 
Alp-high  among  the  whisp'ring  dead. 

Trust  in  thyself,  —  then  spur  amain  : 
So  shall  Chary bdis  wear  a  grace, 
Grim  2Etna  laugh,  the  Libyan  plain 
Take  roses  to  her  shrivell'd  face. 
This  orb  —  this  round 
Of  sigfit  and  sound  — 
Count  it  the  lists  that  God  hath  built 
For  haughty  hearts  to  ride  a-tilt. 

THE  WHITE  MOTH 

If  a  leaf  rustled,  she  would  start : 

And  yet  she  died,  a  year  ago. 
How  had  so  frail  a  thing  the  heart 

To  journey  where  she  trembled  so  ? 
And  do  they  turn  and  turn  in  fright, 

Those  little  feet,  in  so  much  night? 

The  light  above  the  poet's  head 

Streamed  on  the  page  and  on  the  cloth, 


And  twice  and  thrice  there  buffeted 

On  the  black  pane  a  white-winged  moth  ; 

'T  was  Annie's  soul  that  beat  outside 
And  "  Open,  open,  open  !  "  cried  : 

"  I  could  not  find  the  way  to  God  ; 

There  were  too  many  flaming  suns 
For  signposts,  and  the  fearful  road 

Led  over  wastes  where  millions 
Of  tangled  comets  hissed  and  burned— 

I  was  bewildered  and  I  turned. 

"  O,  it  was  easy  then  !     I  knew 
Your  window  and  no  star  beside. 

Look  up,  and  take  me  back  to  you  !  " 
—  He  rose  and  thrust  the  window  wide. 

'T  was  but  because  his  brain  was  hot 
With  rhyming  ;  for  he  heard  her  not. 

But  poets  polishing  a  phrase 
Show  anger  over  trivial  things  ; 

And  as  she  blundered  in  the  blaze 
Towards  him,  on  ecstatic  wings, 

He  raised  a  hand  and  smote  her  dead  ; 
Then  wrote  "  That  I  had  died  instead  !  " 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

'ExAvoi/  OLV  eyw  ovS'  civ  rjAn-icr'  avSdv. 

WHETHER  is  it  yourself,  Mister  Hagan  ? 

an'  lookin'  right  hearty  you  are  ; 
'T  is  a  thrate  to  behold  you  agin.     You  '11 

•    be  waitin'  to  take  the  long  car 
For  Kilmoyna,  the   same  as   meself,  sir  ? 

They  're  late  at  the  cross-roads  to- 
night, 
For  I  mind   when  the  days  'ud  be   long, 

they  'd  be  here  ere  the  droop  of  the 

light, 
Yet  out  yonder  far  over  the  bog  there  's 

the  sunset  beginnin'  to  burn 
Like  the  red  of  a  camp-fire  raked  low,  and 

no  sign  of  thim  roundin'  the  turn.  — 

So  the  dark  '11  git  ahead  of  us  home  on  this 

jaunt ;  we  've  good  ten  mile  to  go, 
And  thin  afther  the  rain-pours  this  mornin', 

we  're  apt  to  be  draggin'  an'  slow  — 
Ay,  you  're  right,  sir  :  alongside  the  road 

I  've  been  thravellin'  you  'd  scarce 

count  that  far ; 


You  '11  cross  dark  an'  light  times  and  agin 
between  Creggau  and  Kandahar. 

And  is  Norah  along  wid  you  ?   Well,  Norah 

jewel,  how  's  yourself  all  this  year  ? 
Sure  she 's  thin  grown  and  white,  sir,  to 

what  I  remember  her  last  time  we 

were  here. 
Took  could  in  the  spring  ?     Ah,  begorrah, 

the  March  win  's  as  bad  as  a  blight ; 
But   the  weather  we   git   in  Afghanistan, 

troth,  't  would  destroy  her  outright. 
For  in  summer  Ould  Horny  seems  houldin' 

the  earth  in  the  heat  of  his  hand, 
And  in  winther  the  snow  's  the  great  ghost 

of  a  world  settled  down  on  the  land, 
Wid  a  blast  keenin'  over  it  fit  to  be  freeziu' 

the  sun  where  he  shone  ; 
If  they  'd  lease  you  that  counthry  rint-free, 

you  'd  do  righter  to  let  it  alone. 

Glad  enough  to  be  ought  of  it  ?  Well,  in 
a  way,  but  I  've  this  on  me  mind, 

That  I  'm  come  like  the  winther's  worst  day, 
after  lavin'  me  betthers  behind  ; 


588 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


An'  the  nearer  I  git  to  the  ould  place  at 

home,  it 's  the  stranger  I  seem, 
Missin'  thira  I  '11  behold  there  no  more  till 

me  furlough  I  take  in  a  dream. 
But  the  divil  a  dream  's  in  it  now,  and  I  'd 

liefer  dream  ugly  than  think 
What  Jack   Connolly's   folk  '11   remember 

whiuever  they  notice  the  blink 
Of  me  coat  past  their  hedge,  and  I  goin' 

their  road.     Jack's  poor  mother  be- 
like 
'111  be  feedin'  her  hins  in  the  door,  or  else 

gath'rin'  her  clothes  at  the  dyke, 
And  it 's  down  to  the  gate  she  '11  be  runnin' 

and  callin',  an'  biddin'  me  step  in  ; 
And  she  '11  say  to  me  :  "  Well,  Dan,  you  're 

home,  and  I  'm  glad,  sure,  to  see 

you  agin." 
Quare   an'  glad,   I  '11   be  bound,  wid   the 

thought  in  her  heart  of   how  long 

she  might  wait, 
Ere  she  'd  see  her  own  slip  of  a  redcoat 

come  route-marchin'  in  at  her  gate  ; 
He  that  's  campin'  apart  from  us,  joined 

wid  the  throop  who  shift  quarters 

no  more  ; 
Crep'  in  under  the  tent  that 's  wide  worlds 

beyond  call,  tho'  't  was  pitched  at 

your  door. 
Ah,  the  crathur :   't  is    poor  bits   of   hope 

folk  take  up  wid  whin  luck 's  turnin' 

bad! 
She  that  not  so  long  since  'ud  be  thinkin' 

she  'd  soon  git  a  sight  of  the  lad, 
There  she  '11    stand  wid  her  eyes  on   me 

face,  till  I  see   all  as  plain 's   if  I 

heard 
How  she  's  wond'rin',  an  dhreadin'  to  ask, 

have  I  brought  her  so  much  as  a 

word. 
That 's  the  notion 's  come  home  wid  me  ; 

faix,    I   get   thinkin'    it   every   odd 

while, 
Maybe  oft  as  a  lamed  horse  shrinks  his  fut 

in  the  len'th  of  a  stony  mile. 

You  '11  remember  Jack  Connolly,  sir  ?  Ay, 
for  sure,  't  is  good  neighbors  you  've 
been 

Since  he  was  n't  the  height  of  your  stick, 
and  meself  but  a  bit  of  spalpeen. 

Great  the  pair  of  us  both  were  ;  out  most 
whiles  off  over  the  bog  and  away, 

But  the  end  of  it  happint  us  yonder  at  sun- 
set last  Pathrick's  Day. 


The  way  of  it  ?     Our  picket  was  ridin'  in 

be  the  wall  of  the  little  white  town, 
That 's  stuck  like  a  blaiched  wasps'  nest  in 

the  gap  where  the  ridge  of  the  hills 

breaks  down, 
And   the   big   flat   plain   spreads   out  and 

about,  you  might  say  't  was  a  bog 

gone  dhry, 
Lookin'  nathural   enough  till   you   notice 

pricked  up  'gin  the  light  iu  the  sky, 
Their  two  thin  towers',  like  an  ould  snail's 

horns  be  the  shell  of  their  haythir 

dome, 
Peerin'  out   of  a   purpose  to  put  you  in 

mind  where  you  've  thravelled  from 

home. 
We   were   ridin'    too   close  ;   I   remember 

along  on  the  white  of  the  wall 
The    front  men's   helmets  went  bob,  bob, 

bob,    in    blue    shadow,    sthretched 

won'erful  tall, 

For  the  sunbames  were  raichin'  their  fur- 
thest aslant   from  the  edge  of  the 

day, 
Where  the   light   ran,   dhrained   over  the 

earth,  like  a  wave  turnin'  back  to 

the  say, 
All  hot  gold.      Howane'er,  when  we  past 

where    their   straight  -  archin'    door 

opened  black, 
Wid  the  dust  -  thracks   they  thramp   into 

roads  glamin'  in  at  it,  off  went  a 

crack, 
And  ere  ever  an  echo  got  rappin'  the  hills, 

or  the  smoke  riz  to  float, 
'Twas  a  plunge,  and  a  thud,  and  Jack  Con- 
nolly  down   wid   him,   shot   in   the 

throat. 

So  be  raison   of   we  two  bein'  neighbors, 

they  bid  me  mind  Jack  while  they 

went 
To  make  out  what  the  mischief  at  all  the 

rapscallion  that  potted  him  meant  ; 
Some  ould  objic'  wisped  up  in  his  rags  head 

and  fut,  the  crow's  notice  to  quit, 
Wid  a   quare   carabine  'ud  scarce   fright 

e'er  a  bird  who  'd  a  scrumption  of 

wit. 
But  it  was  able  enough  for  that  job,  and 

be  hanged  to  it ;  Jack's  business  was 

done, 
As  you  couldn't  misdoubt.     All  the  west 

swam  clear  fire  round  the  smooth, 

redhot  sun, 


JANE   BARLOW 


589 


Dropped  down  steady  as  a  shell  thro'  still 

wather  ;  but 't  would  n't  be  sunk  out 

of  sight 
Ere  the  lad  had  got  finished  wid  dyin',  and 

gone  beyond  darkness  and  light. 
And  between  whiles  't  was  divil  as   much 

could  I  do  to  be  helpin'  him  ;  just 
Keep  beside  him,  and  dhrive  the  black  fly- 
buzz,  and  lift  up  his  head  from  the 

dust, 
And  hear  tell  had  he  aught  in  his  mind. 

But,  och  man,  if   his  heart  was  to 

break, 
Every  whisper  of  voice  he  had  in  him  was 

kilt,  not  a  word  could  he  spake. 
Sure  now  that  was  couthrary.     An  instant 

before  't  was  no  odds  what  he  said, 
And  he  'd  laughed,  and  he  'd  gabbed  on 

galore,  any  blathers  come   into  his 

head  ; 
But  wid  on'y  a  minit  to  hold  all  his  speech 

in  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Just   one    breath    of   a  word  like   a  hand 

raichin'    worlds'    worlds   an'   years' 

years  away, 
'T  is   sthruck  dumb  he  was,   same  as  his 

crathur  of  a  baste  that  stood  watch- 
in'  us  there, 
Wid   big  eyes  shinin'  fright,   and   snuffin' 

the  throuble  up  out  of  the  air. 

'T  was  a  throuble  swep'  nearer,  an'  blacker, 

an'   surer  ;   the   whole  world   stood 

still  ; 
You  'd  as  aisy  turn  back  a  cloud's  shadow, 

that 's  tuk  to  slide  over  a  hill. 
There  was   Jack  wid   the   life    failiu'  out 

of  him  fast  as  the  light  from   the 

sky, 
That   came   fingerin'  the   grass   wid   long 

rays,  blade  be  blade,  an'  thin  twiu- 

klin'  up  high 
On  the  gold  spark  atop  their  green  dome. 

And   I  thought  to  meself  how  the 

same 
Blamed  ould  sunset  'ud  thrapese  away  to 

the  west  till  the  shine  of  it  came, 
Flarin'   red  in  the    bog-houles,  an'  bright 

past  the  turf-stacks,  and  in  at  the 

door 
Of  the  little  ould  place   down  the  lonin', 

that  Jack  'ud  set  fut  in  no  more, 
And  'twould  dance  on   their  bits  of   gilt 

jugs,  till  they  glittered  like  stars  in 

a  row, 


And   the    people    widin   at    their   suppers 

ne'er  thinkin'  no  great  while  ago 
It  was  dazzlin'  Jack's  eyes  as  he  looked  for 

me  face  wid  the  last  of  his  sight. 
And  sez  I  to  him,  "  What  is  it,  lad  ?  "  but 

I  knew  I  might  listen  all  night 
And   no   answer  ;    the    sorra    a  chance  to 

be  bringin'  thirn  a  word  we  'd  ha' 

found, 
On'y   Jack   had    more   sinse   in    him   yet 

than   meself   that   was   hearty   and 

sound  ; 
For  he  looked  towards  the  rim  of  the  west 

wid  the  sun  hangin'  ready  to  fall, 
And  he  whistled  two  notes  quick  and  low  — 

well  I  knew  it  :   the  curlew's  call. 

I  'd  not  aisy  mistake  it  ;  sure  out  on  these 

bogs  scarce  a  minit  goes  by, 
But   anear  or   afar   on  the   win'   comes  a 

flicker  of  the  crathur's  cry  — 
Faith  I  heard  wan  just  thin  —  and  on  many 

a  day,  ere  the  sun  'ud  be  up, 
And  around  and  around  stood  the  gray  of 

the  air  like  a  big  empty  cup 
Fit  to  hold  every  sound  ever  stirred,  and  to 

catch  all  the  light  ever  shone, 
I  'd  be  out  wid  me  on  to  our  bogland,  all 

desolit  lyin',  and  lone 
As  they  say  whin  you  've  watched  the  low 

shore  till  it  dips  where  the  ridges 

rowl  green, 
And  I  'd  spy  was  there  e'er  a  wan  out,  and 

belike  not  a  sowl  to  be  seen 
Save  Jack  whistlin'  away  to  me  down  be 

the  lough  ;   you  'd  ha'  swore  't  was 

the  bird, 
Barrin'  just  the  laste  differ  ;  Jack  done  it 

the  likest  that  ever  I  heard. 
And  there  's  plenty  that  thry  at  it.   Seldom 

a  suusit  throops  out  of  the  west 
But   some   lad  '11   be   whistlin'  his   sweet- 
heart, that 's  sittin'  and  listenin'  her 

best,  , 

While   the  corners  grow  dark,  and   she  's 

reckonin'  the  shadows  for  'fraid  he 

might  fail. 
So  his  call  lit  the  world  like  a  star.     Ne'er 

a  sweetheart  had  Jack,  I  '11  go  bail, 
For   the   truth    is   his    mind  was    tuk   up 

wid  his   own  folk  ;   it  could  n't   be 

tould 
The   opinion   he   had   and   consait   of   the 

whole    of    thim,   young   wans    and 

ould, 


59° 


And  it  's  there  where  I  'm  bothered  en- 
tirely to  think  how  he  got  the  idee 

To  go  soldierin'  off  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  wid  no  comrade  but  me. 

Howanever,  he  went  off  suddint,  afore  we 
knew  right  what  was  on  ; 

And  I  thought  to  meself  the  ould  place 
'ud  be  quare  wid  Jack  Connolly 
gone, 

So  I  up  and  I  down  to  the  barracks  below, 
an'  the  shillin'  I  tuk  — 

That 's  the  way  it  fell  out,  and  belike 
't  was  himself  had  the  best  of  the 
luck. 

And  continted  and  aisy  he  went,  wanst  he 

saw  he  'd  made  shift  to  conthrive 
That  the  message  he  had  in  his  mind  'ud 

go  safe.     For  sez  I  :  "  Man  alive, 
I  '11  be  tellin'  your  people  at  home  the  first 

chance  I  can  git,  good  or  bad, 
How  thimselves,  and  the  ould   place  you 

quit,  was  the  last  thought  that  ever 

you  had  ; 
And  I  '11    bid    thim    be    thinkin'   of  yovi, 

whin  they  hear  the  bird  cry  on  our 

bog. 
Your    poor   mother,    an'   father,    an'    the 

childher,  an'  their  little  ould  rogue 

of  a  dog, 
Ne'er  a  wan  you  're  forgettin',"  sez  I ;  and 

bedad  any  fool  might  ha'  known, 
For  the  manin'  he  meant  wid  his  call  was 

as  clear  as  a  bugle  blown. 
And  our  rifles  wint  crack  be  the  gateway, 

and  now  and  again  wid  a  plop 
Come  a  bullet  dhruv  deep  in  the  sand  — 

't  was    the    divil    dhrill-sowin'    his 

crop  — 
And  a  priest  legged  it  up  to  the  top  of  the 

tower,  and  stood  risin'  a  yell 
For  the  rest  to  be  sayin'  their  prayers,  like 

as  if  't  was  our  angely  bell. 
But  it 's  little  Jack  heeded  ;  for  sure  his 

own  folk,  and  th'  ould  counthry,  and 

all 


Were  come  nearer  than  near,  and  gone  fur- 
ther than  far,  along  wid  that  cur- 
lew's call. 

Ah,    but     Norah,    you  're     perished    an' 

thrimblin'  wid  could  sittin'  here  in 

the  win'  ; 
Did  you  bring  ne'er  a  wrap  to  rowl  round 

you,  machree,  now  the  night 's  closin' 

in? 
For  there  's  mists  curlin'  white  on  the  pools, 

and  the  air  gets  an  edge  whin  they 

lift. 
Ay,  the  moon  's  up,  just  on'y  a  breath  'gin 

the   blue,   where    the   cloud   comes 

adrift, 
Sthreelin'  by  like  a  haystack  on  fire,  wid 

the  flame  blowin'  off  be  the  way 
In  bright  bundles  and   wisps,   as  if  some 

wan  'ud  harvest  the  light  of  the  day 
'T  is  n't  that  fashion  dark  falls,  out  there 

in  the  aist.     Wanst  the  sun  goes  on 

lave, 
Ne'er  a  thrace  of  a  glame  bides  to  show 

where  he  passed,  like  the  foam  of 

a  wave  ; 
He  '11  be  blazin'  wan  minit,  and  thin 't  is  the 

same  as  if  somebody  shut 
A  black  door  on  the  blink  of  a  hearth,  or 

kicked  over  a  lamp  wid  his  fut. 
So  the  rest  of  us  rode  thro'  a  night  blindin' 

dark,    till    we  'd    half     the    plain 

crossed, 
And  the  moon  riz   ice-clear,  wid   a  shine 

lyin'    thick   on   the   grass   as   hoar- 
frost 
You  could  gather  up.     And,  troth,  if  our 

tongues  had  froze  stiff,  't  is  as  much 

we  'd  ha'  said, 
Wid  Jack  Connolly's  baste  saddle-empty, 

and  jerkin'  the  reins  as  I  led. 
Sure  poor  Jack  had  a  dale  of  good-nature  ; 

he  'd  fooled   the  ould   mare  all  he 

could, 
And  the  crathur  went  slow-fut  and  heavy  • 

you  might  think  that  she  understood. 


&tltopn 

THE  PROTESTATION 

DEAR  Eyes,  set  deep  within  the  shade 
Of  Love's  pale  alabaster  brow  ; 


Of   what    strange    substance    are   ye 

made, 

That  such  enchantments  on  me  now, 
Resistless,  by  your  grace  are  laid  ? 


HERBERT   P.    HORNE 


Ye  are  the  stars,  that  do  control 
The  tides  of  my  obedient  mind  : 

Ye  are  the  founts  whereat  my  soul 
In  thirst  may  fcool  assuagement  find  : 

The  soothing  balm  to  make  me  whole. 

Ye  are  the  deeps,  in  whose  retreat 
Refuge  I  find  from  bounding  sin  : 

Ye  are  the  paths,  by  which  my  feet 
Move  onward  to  God's  peace  within  : 

The  abode  where  all  pure  memories  meet. 

Dear  Eyes,  dear  Eyes,  my  health  ye  bring 
'Mid  every  circumstance  of  fate  ! 

In  what  true  numbers  shall  I  sing 
The  glory  and  virtues  of  your  state, 

Whence  for  my  soul  all  grace  doth  spring  ? 

A  PRAYER 

DEAR,  let  me  dream  of  love, 
Ah  !  though  a  dream  it  be  ! 
I  '11  ask  no  boon,  above 

A  word,  a  smile,  from  thee  : 
At   most,  in   some   still  hour,  one   kindly 
thought  of  me. 

Sweet,  let  me  gaze  awhile 

Into  those  radiant  eyes  ! 
I  '11  scheme  not  to  beguile 

The  heart,  that  deeper  lies 


Beneath   them,  than   yon   star   in   night's 
pellucid  skies. 

Love,  let  my  spirit  bow 

In  worship  at  thy  shrine  ! 
I  '11  swear  thou  shalt  not  know 
One  word  from  lips  of  mine, 
An  instant's  pain  to  send  through  that  shy 
soul  of  thine. 

HER  CONFIRMATION 

WHEN  my  Clorinda  walks  in  white 
Unto  her  Confirmation  Rite, 

What  sinless  dove  can  show  to  heaven 
A  purer  sight  ? 

Beneath  a  lawn,  translucent  crown 
Her  lovely  curls  conceal  their  brown  ; 
Her  wanton  eyes  are  fastened,  even, 
Demurely  down. 

And  that  delicious  mouth  of  rose 

No  words,  no  smile,  may  discompose  : 

All  of  her  feels  the  approaching  awe, 
And  silent  grows. 

Come,  then,  Thou  noiseless  Spirit,  and  rest 
Here,  where  she  waits  Thee  for  her  Guest : 

Pass  not,  but  sweetly  onward  draw, 
Till  heaven  's  possessed  ! 


AMICO  SUO 

WHEN  on  my  country  walks  I  go, 

I  never  am  alone  : 
Though  whom  't  were  pleasure  then  to  know 

Are  gone,  and  you  are  gone  ; 
From  every  side  discourses  flow. 

There  are  rich  counsels  in  the  trees, 

And  converse  in  the  air  ; 
All  magic  thoughts  in  those  and  these 

And  what  is  sweet  and  rare  ; 
And  everything  that  living  is. 

But  most  I  love  the  meaner  sort, 

•  For  they  have  voices  too  ; 
Yet  speak  with  tongues,  that  never  hurt, 

As  ours  are  apt  to  do  : 
The  weeds,  the  grass,  the  common  wort. 


FORMOSAE    PUELLAE 


Tot  tibi  tamque  dabit  formosas  Roma  pueilas  ; 
Haec  habet,  ut  dicas,  quidquid  in  orbe  fuii. 


OH  !  had  you  eyes,  but  eyes  that  move 
Within  the  light  and  realm  of  love. 
Then  would  you,  on  the  sudden,  meet 
A  Helen  walking  down  the  street. 

Here  in  this  London  'mid  the  stir, 

The  traffic,  and  the  burdened  air, 

Oh  !  could  your  eyes  divine  their  home, 

Then  this  were  Greece,  or  that  were  Rome 

The  state  of  Dian  is  not  gone, 
The  dawn  she  fled  is  yet  the  dawn  ; 
Her  crystal  flesh  the  years  renew 
Despite  her  bodice,  skirt,  and  shoe. 


592 


RECENT   POETS    OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Nor  is  she  only  to  be  seen 
With  Juno's  height,  and  Pallas'  sheen  ; 
The  knit,  all-wondrously  wrought,  form 
Of  Cytherea,  soft  and  warm, 

Yet,  like  her  jewelled  Hesperus, 
Puts  forth  its  light,  and  shines  on  us  ; 
Whene'er  she  sees,  and  would  control, 
Love,  at  the  windows  of  the  soul. 


NANCY  DAWSON 

NANCY  DAWSON,  Nancy  Dawsoii, 
Not  so  very  long  ago 

Some  one  wronged  you  from  sheer  love, 

dear  ; 

Little  thinking  it  would  crush,  dear, 
All  I  cherished  in  you  so.  , 

But  now,  what 's  the  odds,  my  Nancy  ? 
Where  's  the  guinea,  there  's  the  fancy. 
Are  you  Nancy,  that  old  Nancy  ? 
Nancy  Dawson. 

Nancy  Dawson,  Nancy  Dawson, 
I  forget  you,  what  you  were  ; 


Till  I  feel  the  sad  hours  creep,  dear, 
O'er   my   heart  ;    as   o'er   my   cheek, 

dear, 

Once  of  old,  that  old,  old  hair  : 
And  then,  unawares,  my  Nancy, 
I  remember,  and  I  fancy 
You  are  Nancy,  that  old  Nancy  ; 
Nancy  Dawson. 


IF    SHE    BE    MADE    OF   WHITE 
AND  RED  " 

IF  she  be  made  of  white  and  red, 
As  all  transcendent  beauty  shows  ; 
If  heaven  be  blue  above  her  head, 
And  earth  be  golden,  as  she  goes  : 
Nay,  then  thy  deftest  words  restrain  ; 
Tell  not  that  beauty,  it  is  vain. 

If  she  be  filled  with  love  and  scorn, 
As  all  divinest  natures  are  ; 
If  'twixt  her  lips  such  words  are  born, 
As  can  but  Heaven  or  Hell  confer  : 
Bid  Love  be  still,  nor  ever  speak, 
Lest  he  his  own  rejection  seek. 


Margaret 


REST 

To  spend  the  long  warm  days 
Silent  beside  the  silent-stealing  streams, 

To  see,  not  gaze,  — 

To  hear,  not  listen,  thoughts  exchanged  for 
dreams  : 

See  clouds  that  slowly  pass 
Trailing  their  shadows  o'er  the  far  faint 
down, 

And  ripening  grass, 
While  yet  the  meadows  wear  their  starry 


To  hear  the  breezes  sigh 
Cool  in  the  silver  leaves  like  falling  rain, 

Pause  and  go  by, 
Tired  wanderers  o'er  the  solitary  plain  : 

See  far  from  all  affright 
Shy  river  creatures  play  hour  after  hour, 


And  night  by  night 

Low  in  the  West  the  white  moon's  folding 
flower. 

Thus  lost  to  human  things, 
To  blend  at  last  with  Nature  and  to  hear 

What  songs  she  sings 
Low  to  herself  when  there  is  no  one  near. 


TO  THE  FORGOTTEN  DEAD 

To  the  forgotten  dead, 
Come,  let  us  drink  in  silence  ere  we  part. 
To  every  fervent  yet  resolved  heart 
That  brought  its  tameless  passion  and  its 

tears, 

Renunciation  and  laborious  years, 
To  lay  the  deep  foundations  of  our  race,  • 
To  rear  its  stately  fabric  overhead 
And  light  its  pinnacles  with  golden  gra* 

To  the  uuhonored  dead. 


RICHARD   LE  GALLIENNE 


593 


To  the  forgotten  dead, 
Whose  dauntless  hands  were  stretched  to 

grasp  the  rein 

Of  Fate  land  hurl  into  the  void  again 
Her  thunder-hoofed  horses,  rushing  blind 
Earthward  along  the  courses  of  the  wind. 
Among  the  stars,  along  the  wind  in  vain 
Their  souls  were  scattered  and  their  blood 

was  shed, 
And  nothing,  nothing  of  them  doth  remain. 

To  the  thrice-perished  dead. 


YOUNG  WINDEBANK 

THEY  shot  young  Windebauk  just  here, 

By  Merton,  where  the  sun 
Strikes  on  the  wall.     'T  was  in  a  year 

Of  blood  the  deed  was  done. 

At  morning  from  the  meadows  dim 
He  watched  them  dig  his  grave. 

Was  this  in  truth  the  end  for  him, 
The  well-beloved  and  bravfi  ? 

He  marched  with  soldier  scarf  and  sword, 
Set  free  to  die  that  day, 


And  free  to  speak  once  more  the  word 
That  marshalled  meii  obey. 

But  silent  on  the  silent  band, 
That  faced  him  stern  as  death, 

He  looked,  and  on  the  summer  laud, 
And  on  the  grave  beneath. 

Then  with  a  sudden  smile  and  proud 
He  waved  his  plume,  and  cried, 

"  The  king  !  the  king  !  "  and  laughed  aloud, 
"  The  king  !  the  king  !  "  and  died. 

Let  none  affirm  he  vainly  fell, 

And  paid  the  barren  cost 
Of  having  loved  and  served  too  well 

A  poor  cause  and  a  lost. 

He  in  the  soul's  eternal  cause 
Went  forth  as  martyrs  .must  — 

The  kings  who  make  the  spirit  laws 
And  rule  us  from  the  dust ; 

Whose  wills  unshaken  by  the  breath 

Of  adverse  Fate  endure, 
To  give  us  honor  strong  as  death 

And  loyal  love  as  sure. 


ORBITS 

Two  stars  once  on  their  lonely  way 

Met  in  the  heavenly  height, 
And  they  dreamed   a  dream  they   might 
shine  alway 

With  undivided  light  ; 
Melt  into  one  with  a  breathless  throe, 

And  beam  as  one  in  the  night. 

And  each  forgot  in  the  dream  so  strange 

How  desolately  far 
Swept  on  each  path,  for  who  shall  change 

The  orbit  of  a  star  ? 
Yea,  all  was  a  dream,  and  they  still  must  go 

As  lonely  as  they  are. 

LOVE'S  POOR 

• 

TEA,  love,  I  know,  and  I  would  have  it 

thus  ; 
I  know  that  not  for  us 


Is   springtide    Passion   with   his    fire   and 

flowers, 

I  know  this  love  of  ours 
Lives  not,  nor  yet  may  live, 
By  the  dear  food  that  lips  and  hands  can 

give. 
Not,  love,   that  we  in    some    high  dream 

despise 

The  common  lover's  common  Paradise  ; 
Ah,  God,  if  Thou  and  I 
But  one  short  hour  their  blessedness  might 

try, 

How  could  we  poor  ones  teach 
Those  happy  ones  who   half   forget   them 

rich  : 

For  if  we  thus  endure, 
'T  is  only,  love,  because  we  are  so  poor. 

REGRET 

ONE  asked  of  Regret, 
And  I  made  reply  : 


594 


RECENT   POETS    OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


To  have  held  the  bird, 

And  let  it  fly  ; 
To  have  seen  the  star 

For  a  moment  nigh, 
And  lost  it 

Through  a  slothful  eye  ; 
To  have  plucked  the  flower 

And  cast  it  by  ; 
To  have  one  only  hope  — 

To  die. 

THE  WONDER-CHILD 

"  OUR  little  babe,"  each  said,  "  shall  be 
Like  unto  thee  "  —  "  Like  unto  thee  !  " 
"  Her  mother's  "  —  "  Nay,  his  father's  " 

—  "  eyes," 

"  Dear  curls  like  thine  "  —  but  each  re- 
plies, 
"  As  thine,  all  thine,  and  naught  of  me." 

What  sweet  solemnity  to  see 
The  little  life  upon  thy  knee, 
And  whisper  as  so  soft  it  lies,  — 
"  Our  little  babe  !  " 

For,  whether  it  be  he  or  she, 

A  David  or  a  Dorothy, 

"  As  mother  fair,"  or  "  father  wise," 
Both  when  it's  "good,"  and   when  it 
cries, 

One  thing  is  certain,  —  it  will  be 
Our  little  babe. 

AN  OLD  MAN'S  SONG 

YE  are  young,  ye  are  young, 

I  am  old,  I  am  old  ; 
And  the  song  has  been  sung 

And  the  story  been  told. 

Your  locks  are  as  brown 

As  the  mavis  in  May, 
Your  hearts  are  as  warm 

As  the  sunshine  to-day, 
But  mine  white  and  cold 

As  the  snow  on  the  brae. 

And  Love,  like  a  flower, 

Is  growing  for  you, 
Hands  clasping,  lips  meeting, 

Hearts  beating  so  true  ; 
While  Fame  like  a  star 
In  the  midnight  afar 

Is  flashing  for  you. 


For  you  the  To-come, 

But  for  me  the  Goue-by, 
You  are  panting  to  live, 

I  am  waiting  to  die  ; 
The  meadow  is  empty, 

No  flower  groweth  high, 
And  naught  but  a  socket 

The  face  of  the  sky. 

Yea,  howso  we  dream, 

Or  how  bravely  we  do  ; 
The  end  is  the  same, 

Be  we  traitor  or  true  : 
And  after  the  bloom 

And  the  passion  is  past, 

Death  cometh  at  last. 

THE    PASSIONATE    READER    TO 
HIS  POET 

DOTH  it  not  thrill  thee,  Poet, 
Dead  and  dust  though  thou  art, 

To  feel  how  I  press  thy  singing 
Close  to  my  heart  ? 

Take  it  at  night  to  my  pillow, 

Kiss  it  before  I  sleep, 
And  again  when  the  delicate  morning 

Beginneth  to  peep  ? 

See  how  I  bathe  thy  pages 

Here  in  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Through  thy  leaves,  as  a  wind  among  roses, 

The  breezes  shall  run. 

Feel  how  I  take  thy  poem 

And  bury  within  it  my  face 
As  I  pressed  it  last  night  in  the  heart  of  a 
flower, 

Or  deep  in  a  dearer  place. 

Think,  as  I  love  thee,  Poet, 

A  thousand  love  beside, 
Dear  women  love  to  press  thee  too 

Against  a  sweeter  side. 

Art  thou  not  happy,  Poet  ? 

I  sometimes  dream  that  I 
For  such  a  fragrant  fame  as  thine 

Would  gladly  sing  and  die. 

Say,  wilt  thou  change  thy  glory 

For  this  same  youth  of  mine  ? 
And  I  will  give  my  days  i'  the  sun 

For  that  great  song  of  thine. 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


595 


£utipar&  Jtipiing 


DANNY  DEEVER 

"  WHAT   are   the   bugles  blowin'  for  ? " 

said  Files-on-Parade. 
"  To  turn  you  out,  to  turn  you  out,"  the 

Color-Sergeant  said. 
"  What     makes    you    look    so    white,    so 

white  ?  "  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"  I  'm  dreadin'  what  I  've  got  to  watch," 

the  Color-Sergeant  said. 
For   they  're   hangin'   Danny  Deever, 
you  can  hear  the  Dead  March  play, 
The    regiment 's    in    'ollow    square  — 

they  're  hangin'  him  to-day  ; 
They  've  taken  of  his  buttons  off  an' 

cut  his  stripes  away, 
An'  they  're  hangin'  Danny  Deever  in 
the  mornin'. 

"  What   makes   the   rear-rank   breathe   so 

'ard  ?  "  said  Files-on-Parade. 
"It's   bitter   cold,    it's   bitter   cold,"   the 

Color-Sergeant  said. 
"  What    makes   that   front-rank   man   fall 

down?"  says  Files-on-Parade. 
"  A  touch  o'  sun,  a  touch  o'  sun,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 
They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  they 

are  marchin'  of  'im  round, 
They  'ave  'alted  Danny  Deever  by  'is 

coffin  on  the  ground  ; 
An'  'e  '11   swing  in  'arf  a  minute  for 

a  sneakin'  shootin'  hound  — 
O  they  're  hangin'    Danny  Deever  in 
the  mornin'  ! 

"  'Is  cot  was  right-'and  cot  to  mine,"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 
"''E's  sleepin'  out  an'  far  to-night,"  the 

Color-Sergeant  said. 
"  I  've  drunk  'is  beer  a  score  o'  times,"  said 

Files-on-Parade. 

"  'E  's  drinkin'  bitter  beer  alone,"  the  Color- 
Sergeant  said. 
They  are  hangin'  Danny  Deever,  you 

must  mark  'im  to  'is  place, 
For  'e  shot  a  comrade  sleepin'  —  you 

must  look  'im  in  the  face  ; 
Nine  'undred  of  'is  county  an'  the  reg- 
iment's disgrace, 

While  they  're  hangiii'  Danny  Deever 
in  the  mornin'- 


;  What 's  that  so  black  agin   the   sun  ?  " 

said  Files-on-Parade. 
'It's   Danny   fightin'  'ard   for   life,"   the 

Color-Sergeant  said. 
1  What 's  that  that  whimpers  over'ead  ?  " 

said  Files-ou-Parade. 
'•  It 's  Danny's  soul  that 's  passin'  now,"  the 

Color-Sergeant  said. 
For  they  're  done  with  Danny  Deever, 

you  can  'ear  the  quickstep  play, 
The  regiment 's  in  column,  an'  they  're 

marchin'  us  away  ; 
Ho  !   the  young  recruits  are  shakin', 

an'  they  '11  want  their  beer  to-day, 
After  hangin'  Dannv  Deever  in  the 
mornin'. 


«  FUZZY-WUZZY  " 
(SOUDAN  EXPEDITIONARY  FORCE) 

WE  VE  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the 

seas, 
An'  some  of  'em  was  brave  an'  some  was 

not, 

The  Paythan  an'  the  Zulu  an'  Burmese  ; 
But  the  Fuzzy  was  the  finest  o'  the  lot. 
We    never    got   a    ha'porth's    change    of 

'im  : 
'E  squatted  in  the  scrub  an'  'ocked  our 

'orses, 
'E  cut  our  sentries  up  at  Suakim, 

An'  'e  played  the  cat  an'  banjo  with  our 

forces. 
So  'ere's  to  you,  Fuzzy- Wuzzy,  at  your 

'ome  in  the  Soudan  ; 
You  're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but 

a  first-class  fightin'  man  ; 
We  gives  you  your  certificate,  an'  if 

you  want  it  signed 

We  '11  come  an'  'ave  a  romp  with  you 
whenever  you  're  inclined. 

We    took    our   chanst    among  the   Kyber 

'ills, 

The  Boers  knocked  us  silly  at  a  mile, 
The  Burman  give  us  Irriwaddy  chills, 

An'  a  Zulu  impi  dished  us  up  in  style  :  . 
But  all  we  ever  got  from  such  as  they 
Was  pop  to  what  the  Fuzzy  made  us 
swaller  ; 


596 


RECENT   POETS    OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


We  'eld    our    bloomin'    own,   the    papers 

say, 
But  man  for  man  the  Fuzzy  knocked  us 

'oiler. 
Then  'ere  's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wu/zy,  an' 

the  missis  and  the  kid  ; 
Our  orders  was  to  break  you,  an'  of 

course  we  went  an'  did. 
We  sloshed  you  with  Martinis,  an'  it 

was  n't  'ardly  fair  ; 
But  for  all  the  odds  agin'  you,  Fuzzy- 

Wuz,  you  broke  the  square. 

'E  'as  n't  got  no  papers  of  'is  own, 

'E  'as  n't  got  no  medals  nor  rewards, 
So  we  must  certify  the  skill  'e  's  shown 

In  usin'  of  'is  long  two-'anded  swords  : 
When  'e  's  'oppin'  in  an'  out   among  the 

bush 

With  'is  coffin-'eaded  shield  an'  shovel- 
spear, 

An  'appy  day  with  Fuzzy  on  the  rush 
Will     last    an    'ealthy    Tommy    for    a 

year. 
So   'ere 's   to    you,   Fuzzy-Wuzzy.  an' 

your  friends  which  are  no  more, 
If  we  'ad  n't  lost  some  messmates  we 

would  'elp  you  to  deplore  ; 
But    give   an'   take 's  the   gospel,  an' 

we  '11  call  the  bargain  fair, 
For  if  you  'ave  lost  more  than  us,  you 
crumpled  up  the  square  ! 

'E    rushes    at    the    smoke    when    we    let 

drive, 
An',  before  we  know,  'e  's  'ackin'  at  our 

'ead  ; 

'E  's  all  'ot  sand  an'  ginger  when  alive, 
An'  'e  's  generally  shammin'  when  'e  's 

dead. 

'E  's  a  daisy,  'e  's  a  ducky,  'e  's  a  lamb  ! 
'E  's  a  injia-rubber  idiot  on  the  spree, 
'E  's  ,  the   on'y  thing  that  does  n't   give   a 

damn 

For  a  Regiment  o'  British  Infantree  ! 
So  'ere  's  to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  at  your 

'ome  in  the  Soudan  ; 
You  're  a  pore  benighted  'eathen  but  a 

first-class  fightin'  man  ; 
An'  'ere  's  .to  you,  Fuzzy-Wuzzy,  with 

your  'ayrick  'ead  of  'air  — 
You  big  black  boundin'  beggar  —  for 
you  broke  a  British  square  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF    EAST  AND 
WEST 

OH,  East  is  East,  and   West  is  West,  and 

never  the  twain  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's 

great  Judgment  Seat  • 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border, 

nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth  ! 

Kamal  is  out  with  twenty  men  to  raise  the 

Border  side, 
And  he  has  lifted  the  Colonel's  mare  that 

is  the  Colonel's  pride  : 
He  has  lifted  her  out  of  the   stable-door 

between  the  dawn  and  the  day, 
And  turned  the  calkins  upon  her  feet,  and 

ridden  her  far  away. 
Then  up  and  spoke  the  Colonel's  sou  that 

led  a  troop  of  the  Guides  : 
"  Is  there  never  a  man  of  all  my  men  can 

say  where  Kamal  hides  ?  " 
Then  up  and  spoke  Mahommed  Khan,  the 

son  of  the  Ressaldar, 
"  If  ye  know  the  track  of  the  morning-mist, 

ye  know  where  his  pickets  are. 
At  dusk  he  harries  the  Abazai  —  at  dawn 

he  is  into  Bonair, 
But  he  must  go  by  Fort  Bukloh  to  his  own 

place  to  fare, 
So  if  ye  gallop  to  Fort  Bukloh  as  fast  as 

a  bird  can  fly, 
By  the  favor  of  God  ye  may  cut  him  off 

ere  he  win  to  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
But  if  he  be  passed  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 

right  swiftly  turn  ye  then, 
For  the    length  and    the    breadth  of   that 

grisly  plain   is   sown  with  Kamal's 

men. 
There  is  rock  to  the  left,  and  rock  to  the 

right,  and  low  lean  thorn  between, 
And  ye  may  hear  a  breech-bolt  snick  where 

never  a  man  is  seen." 
The  Colonel's  son  has  taken  a  horse,  and  a 

raw  rough  dun  was  he, 
With  the  month  of  a  bell  and  the  heart  of 

Hell,  and  the  head  of  the  gallows- 
tree. 
The  Colonel's  son  to  the  Fort  has  won,  they 

bid  him  stay  to  eat  — 
Who  rides  at  the  tail  of  a  Border  thief,  he 

sits  not  long  at  his  meat. 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 


597 


He  's  up  and  away  from    Fort   Bukloh  as 

fast  as  he  can  fly, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  in 

the  gut  of  the  Tongue  of  Jagai, 
Till  he  was  aware  of  his  father's  mare  with 

Kamal  upon  her  back, 
And  when  he  could  spy  the  white  of  her 

eye,  he  made  the  pistol  crack. 
He  has  fired  once,  he  has  fired  twice,  but 

the  whistling  ball  went  wide. 
"  Ye   shoot   like   a   soldier,"   Kamal   said. 

"  Show  now  if  ye  can  ride." 
It 's  up  and  over  the  Tongue  of  Jagai,  as 

blown  dust-devils  go, 
The  dun  he  fled  like  a  stag  of  ten,  but  the 

mare  like  a  barren  doe. 
The   dun   he  leaned   against   the   bit   and 

slugged  his  head  above, 
But  the  red  mare  played  with  the  snaffle- 
bars,  as  a  maiden  plays  with  a  glove. 
There  was  rock  to  the  left  and  rock  to  the 

right,  and  low  lean  thorn  between, 
And  thrice   he  heard   a  breech-bolt  snick 

tho'  never  a  man  was  seen. 
They  have    ridden   the    low  moon   out  of 

the    sky,  their  hoofs   drum  up  the 

dawn, 
The  dun  he  went  like  a  wounded  bull,  but 

the  mare  like  a  new-roused  fawn. 
The  dun  he  fell  at  a  water-course  —  in  a 

woful  heap  fell  he, 
And  Kamal  has  turned  the  red  mare  back, 

and  pulled  the  rider  free. 
He  has  knocked  the  pistol  out  of  his  hand 

—  small  room  was  there  to  strive, 
"  'T  was  only  by  favor  of  mine,"  quoth  he, 

"  ye  rode  so  long  alive  : 
There  was    not   a    rock    for  twenty  mile, 

there  was  not  a  clump  of  tree, 
But  covered  a  man  of  my  own  men  with 

his  rifle  cocked  on  his  knee. 
If  I  had  raised  my  bridle-hand,  as  I  have 

held  it  low, 
The  little   jackals  that  flee   so   fast,  were 

feasting  all  in  a  row  : 
If  I  had  bowed  my  head  on  my  breast,  as 

I  have  held  it  high, 
The  kite  that  whistles  above  us  now  were 

gorged  till  she  could  not  fly." 
Lightly  answered  the  Colonel's  son  :  —  "  Do 

good  to  bird  and  beast, 
But  count  who  come  for  the  broken  meats 

before  thou  makest  a  feast. 
If  there  should  follow  a  thousand  swords 

to  carry  my  bones  away, 


Belike  the   price  of  a  jackal's  meal  were 

more  than  a  thief  could  pay. 
They  will  feed  their  horse  on  the  stand- 
•   ing  crop,  their  men  on  the  garnered 

grain, 
The  thatch  of   the  byres  will  serve  their 

fires  when  all  the  cattle  are  slain. 
But  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  fair, — 

thy  brethren  wait  to  sup, 
The  hound  is  kin  to  the  jackal-spawn,  — 

howl,  dog,  and  call  them  up  ! 
And  if  thou  thinkest  the  price  be  high,  in 

steer  and  gear  and  stack, 
Give  me  my  father's  mare  again,  and  I  '11 

fight  my  own  way  back  !  " 
Kamal  has  gripped  him  by  the  hand  and 

set  him  upon  his  feet. 
"  No  talk  shall  be  of  dogs,"  said  he,  "  when 

wolf  and  gray  wolf  meet. 
May  I  eat  dirt  if  thou  hast  hurt  of  me  in 

deed  or  breath  ; 
What  dam  of  lances  brought  thee  forth  to 

jest  at  the  dawn  with  Death  ?  " 
Lightly   answered   the   Colonel's  son  :    "  I 

hold  by  the  blood  of  my  clan  : 
Take  up  the  mare  for  my  father's  gift  — 

by  God,  she  has  carried  a  man  !  " 
The  red  mare  ran  to  the  Colonel's  son,  and 

nuzzled  against  his  breast, 
"  We    be   two  strong   men,"    said   Kamal 

then,  "  but  she  loveth  the  younger 

best. 
So  she  shall  go  with  a  lifter's  dower,  my 

turquoise-studded  rein, 
My  broidered  saddle  and  saddle-cloth,  and 

silver  stirrups  twain." 
The  Colonel's  son  a  pistol  drew  and  held  it 

muzzle-end, 
"  Ye  have  taken  the  one  from  a  foe,"  said 

he  ;  "  will  ye  take  the  mate  from  a 

friend  ?  " 
"  A  gift  for  a  gift,"  said  Kamal  straight ; 

"  a  limb  for  the  risk  of  a  limb. 
Thy   father  has   sent   his   son  to   me,  I'll 

send  my  son  to  him  ! " 
With  that  he  whistled  his  only  son,  that 

dropped  from  a  mountain-crest  — 
He  trod  the  ling  like  a  buck  in  spring,  and 

he  looked  like  a  lance  in  rest. 
"Now  here   is   thy  master,"   Kamal  said, 

"  who  leads  a  troop  of  the  Guides, 
And  thou    must   ride   at  his  left   side   as 

shield  on  shoulder  rides. 
Till  Death  or  I  cut  loose  the  tie,  at  camp 

and  board  and  bed, 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Thy  life  is  his  —  thy  fate  it  is  to  guard  him 

with  thy  head. 
So  thou  must  eat  the  White  Queen's  meat, 

and  all  her  foes  are  thine, 
And  thou  must  harry  thy  father's  hold  for 

the  peace  of  the  border-line. 
And  thou  must  make  a  trooper  tough  and 

hack  thy  way  to  power  — 
Belike  they  will   raise  thee   to   Ressaldar 

when  I  am  hanged  in  Peshawur." 

They  have  looked  each  other  between  the 

eyes,  and  there  they  found  no  fault, 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother- 

in-Blood  on  leavened  bread  and  salt  : 
They  have  taken  the  Oath  of  the  Brother- 

in-Blood  on  fire  and  fresh-cut  sod, 
On  the  hilt  and  the  haft  of  the  Khyber  knife, 

and  the  Wondrous  Names  of  God. 
The  Colonel's  son  he  rides  the  mare  and 

Kamal's  boy  the  dun, 
And  two  have  come  back  to  Fort  Bukloh 

where  there  went  forth  but  one. 
And  when  they  drew  to  the  Quarter-Guard, 

full  twenty  swords  flew  clear  — 
There  was  not  a  man  but  carried  his  feud 

with  the  blood  of  the  mountaineer. 
"  Ha*  done  !  ha'  done  !  "  said  the  Colonel's 

son.      "  Put   up   the   steel   at   your 

sides  ! 
Last   night   ye   had   struck   at    a   Border 

thief  —  to-night  't  is  a  man  of  the 

Guides  ! " 

Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and 

never  the  two  shall  meet, 
Till  Earth  and  Sky  stand  presently  at  God's 

great  Judgment  Seat  • 
But  there  is  neither  East  nor  West,  Border, 

nor  Breed,  nor  Birth, 
When  two  strong  men  stand  face  to  face,  tho1 

they  come  from  the  ends  of  the  earth. 


THE  CONUNDRUM  OF  THE 
WORKSHOPS 

WHEN  the  flush  of  a  new-born  sun  fell  first 

on  Eden's  green  and  gold, 
Our  father  Adam  sat  under  the  Tree  and 

scratched  with  a  stick  in  the  mould  ; 
And  the  first  rude  sketch  that  the  world 

had  seen  was  joy  to  his  mighty  heart, 
Till  the  Devil  whispered  behind  the  leaves, 

«  It 's  pretty,  but  is  it  Art  ?  " 


Wherefore  he  called  to  his  wife,  and  fled 

to  fashion  his  work  anew  — 
The  first  of  his  race  who  cared  a  fig  for  the 

first,  most  dread  review  ; 
And  he  left  his  lore  to  the  use  of  his  song 

—  and  that  was  a  glorious  gain 
When  the  Devil  chuckled  "  Is  it  Art  ?  "  in 

the  ear  of  the  branded  Cain. 

They  builded  a  tower  to  shiver  the  sky  and 

wrench  the  stars  apart, 
Till  the  Devil  grunted  behind  the  bricks  : 

"  It 's  striking,  but  is  it  Art  ?  " 
The  stone  was  dropped  at  the  quarry-side 

and  the  idle  derrick  swung, 
While  each  man  talked  of  the  aims  of  Art, 

and  each  in  an  alien  tongue. 

They  fought  and  they  talked  in  the  North 

and  the  South,  they  talked  and  they 

fought  in  the  West, 
Till  the  waters  rose  on  the  pitiful  land,  and 

the  poor  Red  Clay  had  rest  — 
Had  rest  till  the  dank,  blank-canvas  dawn 

when  the  dove  was  preened  to  start, 
And  the   Devil   bubbled   below  the   keel  : 

"  It 's  human,  but  is  it  Art  ?  " 

The  tale  is  as  old  as  the  Eden  Tree  —  and 

new  as  the  new-cut  tooth  — 
For   each   man   knows    ere   his   lip-thatch 

grows  he  is  master  of  Art  and  Truth  ; 
And  each  man  hears  as  the  twilight  nears, 

to  the  beat  of  his  dying  heart, 
The   Devil  drum   on  the  darkened  pane  : 

"  You  did  it,  but  was  it  Art  ?  " 

We  have  learned  to  whittle  the  Eden  Tree 

to  the  shape  of  a  surplice-peg, 
We   have   learned    to  bottle   our  parents 

twain  in  the  yelk  of  an  addled  egg, 
We  know  that  the  tail  must  wag  the  dog, 

for  the  horse  is  drawn  by  the  cart  ; 
But  the  Devil  whoops,  as  he  whooped  of 

old  :  "  It 's  clever,  but  is  it  Art  ?  " 

When  the  flicker  of  London  sun  falls  faint 

on  the  Club-room's  green  and  gold, 
The  sons  of  Adam  sit  them  down  and  scratcn 

with  their  pens  in  the  mould  — 
They  scratch  with  their  pens  in  the  mould 

of  their  graves,  and  the  ink  and  the 

anguish  start, 
For  the  Devil  mutters  behind  the  leaves  r 

"  It 's  pretty,  but  is  it  Art  ?  " 


RUDYARD   KIPLING 


599 


Now,   if  we  could  win  to  the  Eden  Tree 

where  the  Four  Great  Rivers  flow, 
And  the  Wreath  of  Eve  is  red  on  the  turf 

as  she  left  it  long  ago, 
And  if  we  could   come  when   the   sentry 

slept  and  softly  scurry  through, 
By  the    favor    of   God    we    might    know 

as    much  —  as    our    father    Adam 

knew. 


THE    LAW   OF  THE   JUNGLE 

No  w  this  is  the  Law  of  the  JungJe  —  as  old 

and  as  true  as  the  sky  ; 
And  the  Wolf  that  shall  keep  it  may  prosper, 

but  the  Wolf  that  shall  break  it  must 

die. 
As  the  creeper  that  girdles  the  tree-trunk  the 

Law  runneth  forward  and  back  — 
For  the  strength  of  the  Pack  is  the  Wolf, 

and  the  strength  of  the  Wolf  is  the 

Pack. 

Wash  daily  from  nose-tip  to  tail-tip  ;  drink 
deeply,  but  never  too  deep  ; 

And  remember  the  night  is  for  hunting,  and 
forget  not  the  day  is  for  sleep. 

The  Jackal  may  follow  the  Tiger,  but,  Cub, 
when  thy  whiskers  are  grown, 

Remember  the  Wolf  is  a  hunter  —  go  forth 
and  get  food  of  thine  own. 

Keep  peace  with  the  Lords  of  the  Jun- 
gle —  the  Tiger,  the  Panther,  and 
Bear  ; 

And  trouble  not  Hathi  the  Silent,  and  mock 
not  the  Boar  in  his  lair. 

When  Pack  meets  Pack  in  the  Jungle,  and 

neither  will  go  from  the  trail, 
Lie  down  till  the  leaders  have  spoken  —  it 
t  may*  be  fair  words  shall  prevail. 

When  ye  fight  with  a  Wolf  of  the  Pack,  ye 
must  fight  him  alone  and  afar, 

Lest  others  take  part  in  the  quarrel,  and  the 
Pack  be  diminished  by  war. 

The  Lair  of  the  Wolf  is  his  refuge,  and 
where  he  has  made  him  his  home, 

Not  even  the  Head  Wolf  may  enter,  not 
even  the  Council  may  come. 


The  Lair  of  the  Wolf  is  his  refuge,  but 
where  he  has  digged  it  too  plain, 

The  Council  shall  send  him  a  message,  and 
so  he  shall  change  it  again. 

If  ye  kill  before  midnight,  be  silent,  and 
wake  not  the  woods  with  your  bay, 

Lest  ye  frighten  the  deer  from  the  crops 
and  thy  brothers  go  empty  away. 

Ye  may  kill  for  yourselves,  and  your  mateSj, 
and  your  cubs  as  they  need,  and  ye 
can  ; 

But  kill  not  for  pleasure  of  killing,  and 
seven  times  never  kill  Man. 

If  ye  plunder  his  Kill  from  a  weaker,  de- 
vour not  all  in  thy  pride  ; 

Pack-Right  is  the  right  of  the  meanest;  so 
leave  him  the  head  and  the  hide. 

The  Kill  of  the  Pack  is  the  meat  of  the 
Pack.  Ye  must  eat  where  it  lies  ; 

And  no  one  may  carry  away  of  that  meat 
to  his  lair,  or  he  dies. 

The  Kill  of  the  Wolf  is  the  meat  of  the 
Wolf.  He  may  do  what  he  will, 

But,  till  he  has  given  permission,  the  Pack 
may  not  eat  of  that  Kill. 

Cub-Right  is  the   right   of   the  Yearling. 

From  all  of  his  Pack  he  may  claim 
Full-gorge  when  the  killer  has  eaten  ;  ai:d 

none  may  refuse  him  the  same. 

Lair-Right   is   the    right   of    the   Mother. 

From  all  of  her  year  she  may  claim 
One  haunch  of  each  kill  for  her  litter,  and 

none  may  deny  her  the  same. 

Cave-Right  is  the  right  of  the  Father  —  tc 
hunt  by  himself  for  his  own  ; 

He  is  freed  of  all  calls  to  the  Pack  ;  he  if 
judged  by  the  Council  alone. 

Because  of  his  age  and  his  cunning,  be- 
cause of  his  gripe  and  his  paw, 

In  all  that  the  Law  leaveth  open,  the  word 
of  the  Head  Wolf  is  Law. 

Now  these  are  the  Laws  of  the  Jungle,  and 

many  and  mighty  are  they  ; 
But  the  head  and  the  hoof  of  the  Law  and 

the  haunch,  and  the  hump  is  —  Obey  ! 


6oo 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


THE    LAST   CHANTEY 

"  And  there  was  no  more  sea." 

THUS  said  the  Lord  in  the  Vault  above  the 

Cherubim, 
Calling  to  the  Angels  and  the  Souls  in 

their  degree  :  — 
"  Lo  !   Earth  has  passed  away 
On  the  smoke  of  Judgment  Day, 
That  Our  Word  may  be  established  shall 
we  gather  up  the  Sea  ?  " 

Loud  sang  the  souls  of  the  jolly,  jolly  Mari- 
ners :  — 
"  Plague  upon  the  hurricanes  that  made 

us  furl  and  flee  ! 
But  the  war  is  done  between  us, 
In  the  deep  the  Lord  hath  seen  us  — 
Our  bones  we  '11  leave  the  barracout'  ; 
and  God  may  sink  the  Sea  !  " 

Then  said  the  soul  of  Judas  that  betrayed 

Him:- 
"  Lord,  hast  Thou  forgotten  Thy  covenant 

with  me  ? 

How  once  a  year  I  go 
To  cool  me  on  the  floe, 
And  Ye  take  my  Day  of  Mercy  if  Ye 
take  away  the  Sea  !  " 

Then  said  the  Soul  of  the  Angel  of  the  Off- 
Shore  Wind  :  — 

(He  that  bits  the  Thunder  when  the  bull- 
mouthed  breakers  flee) 
"  I  have  watch  and  ward  to  keep 
O'er  thy  wonders  on  the  deep, 
And  Ye  take  mine  Honor  from  me  if  Ye 
take  away  the  Sea  !  " 

Loud  sang  the  souls  of  the  jolly,  jolly  Mari- 
ners :  — 
"  Nay,  but  we  were  angry  and  a  hasty 

folk  are  we  ! 

If  we  worked  the  ship  together 
Till  she  foundered  in  foul  weather, 
Are  we  babes  that  we  should  clamor  for 
a  vengeance  on  the  Sea  ?  " 

Then  said  the  souls  of  the  slaves  that  men 

threw  overboard  :  — 
"  Kennelled  in  the  picaroon  a  weary  band 

were  we  : 

But  Thy  arm  was  strong  to  save, 
And  it  touched  us  on  the  wave, 


And  we  drowsed  the  long  tides  idle  till 
Thy  trumpets  tore  the  Sea." 

Then  cried  the  soul  of  the  stout  Apostle 

Paul  to  God  : 
"  Once  we  f  rapped  a  ship,  and  she  labored 

woundily. 

There  were  fourteen  score  of  these, 
And  they  blessed  Thee  on  their  knees 
When  they  learned  Thy  Grace  and  Glory 
under  Malta  by  the  sea." 

Loud  sang  the  souls  of  the  jolly,  jolly  Mari- 
ners, 
Plucking  at  their  harps,  and  they  plucked 

unhandily  — 

"  Our  thumbs  are  rough  and  tarred 
And  the  tune  is  something  hard  — 
May  we  lift  the  Dipsea  Chantey  such  as 
seamen  use  at  sea  ?  " 

Then    said    the   souls    of    the   Gentlemen- 
Adventurers  — 

Fettered  wrist-to-bar  all  for  red  iniquity  : 
"  Ho,  we  revel  in  our  chains 
O'er  the  sorrow  that  was. Spain's  ; 
Heave  or  sink  it,  leave  or  drink  it,   we 
were  Masters  of  the  Sea  !  " 

Up    spake   the   soul   of    a    grey   Gothavn 

'speckshioner  :  — 
(He  that  led  the  flinching  in  the  fleets  of 

fair  Dundee) 

"  Ho,  the  ringer  and  right  whale, 
And  the  fish  we  struck  for  sale, 
Will  ye  whelm  them  all  for  wantonness 
that  wallow  in  the  sea  ?  " 

Loud  sang  the  souls  of  the  jolly,  jolly  Mari- 
ners, 

Crying  :  —  "  Under  Heaven  here  is  nei- 
ther lead  nor  lee  ! 
Must  we  sing  for  evermore 
On  the  windless  glassy  floor  ? 
Take  back  your  golden  fiddles,  and  we  11 
beat  for  open  sea  ! " 

Then  stooped  the  Lord,  and  He  called  the 

good  Sea  up  to  Him, 
And  'stablished  his  borders  unto  all  Eter- 
nity, 

That  such  as  have  no  pleasure 
For  to  praise  the  Lord  by  measure 
They  may  enter  into  galleons  and  serve 
Him  on  the  Sea. 


ARTHUR   SYMONS 


601 


Sun,  wind,  and  cloud  shall  fail  not  from  the 

face  of  it, 

Stinging,  ringing  spindrift  nor  the  fulmar 
flying  free, 


A  nd  the  ships  shall  go  abroad 
To  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
Who  heard  the  silly  sailor-men  and  gave 
them  back  their  Sea  ! 


AT  FONTAINEBLEAU 

IT  was  a  day  of  sun  and  rain, 

Uncertain  as  a  child's  swift  moods  ; 

And  I  shall  never  spend  again 
So  blithe  a  day  among  the  woods. 

Was  it  because  the  Gods  were  pleased 
That  they  were  awful  in  our  eyes, 

Whom  we  in  very  deed  appeased 
With  barley-cakes  of  sacrifice  ? 

The  forest  knew  her  and  was  glad, 
And  laughed  for  very  joy  to  know 

Her    child    was    with    her  ;    then,   grown 

sad, 
She  wept,  because  her  child  must  go. 

And  Alice,  like  a  little  Faun, 

Went  leaping  over  rocks  and  ferns, 

Coursing  the  shadow-race  from  dawn 
Until  the  twilight-flock  returns. 

And   she  would  spy  and  she  would  cap- 
ture 

The  shyest  flower  that  lit  the  grass  ; 
The  joy  I  had  to  watch  her  rapture 

Was  keen  as  even  her  rapture  was. 

The  forest  knew  her  and  was  glad, 

And    laughed    and    wept    for    joy   and 
woe. 

This  was  the  welcome  that  she  had 
Among  the  woods  of  Foutainebleau, 

JAVANESE   DANCERS 

TWITCHED    strings,   the    clang   of    metal, 
beaten  drums, 

Dull,  shrill,  continuous,  disquieting  ; 
And  now  the  stealthy  dancer  comes 

Undulantly  with  cat-like  steps  that  cling  ; 

Smiling  between  her  painted  lids  a  smile 
Motionless,  unintelligible,  she  twines 


Her  fingers  into  mazy  lines, 
Twining  her  scarves  across  them  all  the 
while. 

One,  two,  three,  four  step  forth,  and,  to 

and  fro, 

Delicately  and  imperceptibly, 
Now  swaying  gently  in  a  row, 

Now  interthreadiug  slow  and   rhythmi- 
cally, 

Still  with  fixed  eyes,  monotonously  still, 
Mysteriously,  with  smiles  inanimate, 
With  lingering  feet  that  undulate, 

With  sinuous  fingers,  spectral  hands  thai 
thrill, 

The  little  amber-colored  dancers  move, 
Like  little  painted  figures  on  a  screen, 
Or  phantom-dancers  haply  seen 

Among  the  shadows  of  a  magic  grove. 

DURING    MUSIC 

THE  music  had  the  heat  of  blood, 
A  passion  that  no  words  can  reach  ; 

We  sat  together,  and  understood 
Our  own  heart's  speech. 

We  had  no  need  of  word  or  sign, 
The  music  spoke  for  us,  and  said 

All  that  her  eyes  could  read  in  mine 
Or  mine  in  hers  had  read. 

TO  A  PORTRAIT 

A  PENSIVE  photograph 

Watches  me  from  the  shelf  — 

Ghost  of  old  love,  and  half 
Ghost  of  myself  ! 

How  the  dear  waiting  eyes 
Watch  me  and  love  me  yet  — 

Sad  home  of  memories, 
Her  waiting  eyes  ! 


602 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 


Ghost  of  old  love,  wronged  ghost, 
Return  :  though  all  the  pain 

Of  all  once  loved,  long  lost, 
Come  back  again. 


Forget  not,  but  forgive  ! 
Alas,  too  late  I  cry. 
We  are  two  ghosts  that  had  their  chance  to 

live, 
And  lost  it,  she  and  I. 


SDoIfte 


IF  ALL  THE  WORLD 

IF  all  the  world  were  right, 
How  fair  our  love  would  grow, 

At  what  a  golden  height 

Its  spotless  flower  could  blow. 

Through  what  untroubled  air 

Its  fragrant  boughs  would  spread, 

On  fruit  how  sweet  and  rare 
Should  we  be  freely  fed. 

But  ah,  what  could  we  tend, 
With  sorrow  and  delight, 

Our  hearts  how  should  we  spend, 
If  all  the  world  were  right  ? 


AH,  BRING  IT  NOT 

AH,  bring  it  not  so  grudgingly, 

The  gift  thou  bringest  me, 
Thy  kind  hands  shining  from  afar 

Let  me  in  welcome  see, 
And  know  the  treasure  that  they  hold, 
For  purest  gold. 

And  with  glad  feet  that  linger  not, 
Come  through  the  summer  land, 

Through   the    sweet   fragrance  of   the 

flowers, 
Swiftly  to  where  I  stand, 

And  in  the  sunshine  let  me  wear 

Thy  token  rare. 

Fairer  for  me  will  be  the  day, 

Fair  all  the  days  will  be, 
And  thy  rich  gift  upon  my  breast 

Will  make  me  fair  to  see  ; 
And  beautiful,  through  all  the  years, 
In  joys  and  tears. 

Ah  come,  and  coming  do  not  ask 
The  answering  gift  of  mine  ; 


Thou  hast  the  pride  of  offering, 

Taste  now  the  joy  divine, 
And  come,  content  to  pass  to-day 
Empty  away. 


MY  LITTLE  DEAR 

MY  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep, 
Whose  arms  about  me  cling, 

What  kisses  shall  she  have  to  keep, 
While  she  is  slumbering  ? 

Upon  her  golden  baby-hair, 
The  golden  dreams  I  '11  kiss 

Which  Life  spread  through  my  morn- 
ing fair, 
And  I  have  saved,  for  this. 

Upon  her  baby  eyes  I  '11  press 

The  kiss  Love  gave  to  me, 
When  his  great  joy  and  loveliness 

Made  all  things  fair  to  see. 

And  on  her  lips,  with  smiles  astir. 

Ah  me,  what  prayer  of  old 
May  now  be  kissed  to  comfort  her, 

Should  Love  or  Life  grow  cold. 


A  MODEL 

YEAR  after  year  I  sit  for  them, 

The  boys  and  girls  who  come  and  go, 

Although  my  beauty's  diadem 
Has  lain  for  many  seasons  low. 

When  first  I  came  my  hair  was  bright,  — « 
How  hard,  they  said,  to  paint  its  gold, 

How  difficult  to  catch  the  light 

Which  fell  upon  it,  fold  on  fold,  — 

How  hard  to  give  my  happy  youth 
In  all  its  pride  of  white  and  red  ; 


WILLIAM   BUTLER  YEATS 


603 


None  would  believe,  in  very  truth, 
A  maiden  was  so  fair,  they  said. 

How  could  they  know  they  gave  to  rne 
The  daily  hope  which  made  ine  fair, 

Sweet  promises  of  things  to  be, 
The  happy  things  I  was  to  share. 

The  flowers  painted  round  my  face, 
The  magic  seas  and  skies  above, 

And  many  a  fair  enchanted  place 
Full  of  the  summer  time  and  love. 

They  set  me  in  a  fairy-land, 

So  much  more  real  than  they  knew, 
And  I  was  slow  to  understand 

The  pictures  could  not  all  come  true. 

But  one  by  one,  they  died  somehow, 
The    waking    dreams    which    kept 
glad, 

And  as  I  sat,  they  told  me  now, 
None  would  believe  a  maid  so  sad. 

They  paint  me  still,  but  now  I  sit 
Just  for  my  neck  and  shoulder  lines, 

And  for  the  little  lingering  bit 
Of  color  in  my  hair  that  shines. 

And  as  a  figure  worn  and  strange 
Into  their  groups  I  sometimes  stray, 

To  break  the  light,  to  mark  their  range 
Of  sun  and  shade,  of  grave  and  gay. 


And  evermore  they  come  and  go, 

With  life  and  hope  so  sweet  and  high,— 

In  all  the  world  how  should  they  know 
There  is  no  one  so  tired  as  I. 

OCTOBER 

FROM  falling  leaf  to  falling  leaf, 

How  strange  it  was,  through  all  the  year, 
In  all  its  joy  and  all  its  grief, 

You  did  not  know  I  loved  you  dear  ; 
Through  all  the  winter-time  and  spring, 

You  smiled  and  watched  me  come  and  go, 
Through  all  the  summer  blossoming, 

How  strange  it  was  you  did  not  know. 

Your  face  shone  from  my  earth  and  sky, 

Your  voice  was  in  my  heart  always, 
Days  were  as  dreams  when  you  were  by, 

And  nights  of  dreaming  linked  the  days  ; 
In  my  great  joy  I  craved  so  much, 

My  life  lay  trembling  at  your  hand, 
I  prayed  you  for  one  magic  touch, 

How  strange  you  did  not  understand  ! 

From  leaf  to  leaf,  the  trees  are  bare, 

The  autumn  wind  is  cold  and  stern, 
And  outlined  in  the  clear  sharp  air 

Lies  a  new  world  for  me  to  learn  ; 
Stranger  than  all,  dear  friend,  to-day, 

You  take  my  hand  and  do  not  know 
A  thousand  years  have  passed  away, 

Since  last  year  —  when  I  loved  you  so. 


IBiHiam  Cutler  f  cat£ 


AN  INDIAN  SONG 

O  WANDERER  in  the  southern  weather, 
Our  isle  awaits  us  ;  on  each  lea 

The  pea-hens  dance  ;  in  crimson  feather 
A  parrot  swaying  on  a  tree 
Rages  at  his  own  image  in  the  enamelled 


There  dreamy  Time  lets  fall  his  sickle 
And  Life  the  sandals  of  her  fleetness, 

And  sleek  young  Joy  is  no  more  fickle, 
And  Love  is  kindly  and  deceitless, 
And  all  is  over  save  the  murmur  and  the 
sweetness. 

There  we  will  moor  our  lonely  ship 
And  wander  ever  with  woven  hands, 


Murmuring  softly,  lip  to  lip, 

Along  the  grass,  along  the  sands  — 
Murmuring  how  far  away  are  all  earth's 
feverish  lauds  : 

How  we  alone  of  mortals  are 

Hid  in  the  earth's  most  hidden  part, 

While  grows  our  love  an  Indian  star, 
A  meteor  of  the  burning  heart, 
One  with  the  waves  that  softly  round  us 
laugh  and  dart  ; 

One  with  the  leaves  ;  one  with  the  dove 
That  moans  and  sighs  a  hundred  days  ; 

How  when  we  die  our  shades  will  rove, 
Dropping  at  eve  in  coral  bays 
A  vapory  footfall  on  the  ocean's  sleepy 
blaze. 


604 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


AN  OLD  SONG  RESUNG 

DOWN  by  the  salley  gardens  my  love  and  I 

did  meet  ; 
She  passed  the  salley  gardens  with  little 

snow-white  feet. 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy  as  the  leaves 

grow  on  the  tree  ; 
But  I,  being  young  and  foolish,  with  her 

would  not  agree. 

In  a  field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I  did 

stand, 
And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her 

snow-white  hand. 
She   bid   me   take  life  easy  as  the  grass 

grows  on  the  weirs  ; 
But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am 

full  of  tears. 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD 

WHO  dreamed  that  beauty  passes  like  a 

dream  ? 

For  these  red  lips  with  all  their  mourn- 
ful pride, 

Mournful  that  no  new  wonder  may  betide, 
Troy   passed    away  .in   one    high   funeral 

gleam, 
And  Usna's  children  died. 

We   and   the   laboring  world  are  passing 

by:  — 
Amid  men's  souls  that  day  by  day  gives 

place, 
More  fleeting  than  the  sea's  foam-fickle 

face, 

Under  the  passing  stars,  foam  of  the  sky, 
Lives  on  this  lonely  face. 

Bow  down,  archangels,  in  your  dim  abode  : 
Before  ye  were  or  any  hearts  to  beat, 
Weary  and  kind  one  stood  beside  His 
seat ; 

He  made  the  world,  to  be  a  grassy  road 
Before  her  wandering  feet. 


THE  WHITE  BIRDS 

I  WOULD  that  we  were,  my  beloved,  white 
birds  on  the  foam  of  the  sea  : 

We  tire  of  the  flame  of  the  meteor,  before 
it  can  pass  by  and  flee  ; 


And  the  flame  of  the  blue  star  of  twilight, 
hung  low  on  the  rim  of  the  sky, 

Has  awaked  in  our  hearts,  my  beloved,  a 
sadness  that  never  may  die. 

A  weariness  conies  from  those  dreamers, 

dew-dabbled,  the  lily  and  rose, 
Ah,  dream  not  of  them,  my  beloved,  the 

flame  of  the  meteor  that  goes, 
Or  the  flame  of  the  blue  star  that  lingers 

hung  low  in  the  fall  of  the  dew  : 
For  I  would  we  were  changed  to  white  birds 

on  the  wandering  foam — I  and  you. 

I  am  haunted  by  numberless  islands,  and 

many  a  Danaan  shore, 
Where  Time  would  surely  forget  us,  and 

Sorrow  come  near  us  no  more  : 
Soon  far  from  the  rose  and  the  lily,  the 

fret  of  the  flames,  would  we  be, 
Were  we   only  white   birds,  my   beloved, 

buoyed  out  on  the  foam  of  the  sea. 


THE  FOLK  OF  THE  AIR 

O'DRISCOLL  drove  with  a  song 
The  wild  duck  and  the  drake 

From  the  tall  and  the  tufted  weeds 
Of  the  drear  Heart  Lake. 

And  he  saw  how  the  weeds  grew  dark 
At  the  coming  of  night  tide, 

And  he  dreamed  of  the  long  dim  hair 
Of  Bridget  his  bride. 

He  heard  while  he  sang  and  dreamed 

A  piper  piping  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 

And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 

And  he  saw  young  men  and  young  girls 
Who  danced  on  a  level  place, 

And  Bridget  his  bride  among  them, 
With  a  sad  and  a  gay  face. 

The  dancers  crowded  about  him, 
And  many  a  sweet  thing  said, 

And  a  young  man  brought  him  red  wine, 
And  a  young  girl  white  bread. 

But  Bridget  drew  him  by  the  sleeve, 
Away  from  the  merry  bands, 

To  old  men  playing  at  cards 

With  a  twinkling  of  ancient  hands. 


GEORGE   WILLIAM   RUSSELL 


605 


The  bread  and  the  wine  had  a  doom, 
For  these  were  the  folk  of  the  air  ; 

He  sat  and  played  in  a  dream 
Of  her  long  dim  hair. 

He  played  with  the  merry  old  men, 
And  thought  not  of  evil  chance, 

Until  one  bore  Bridget  his  bride 
Away  from  the  merry  dance. 

He  bore  her  away  in  his  arms, 

The  handsomest  young  man  there, 

And   his   neck   and   his  breast   and   his 

arms 
Were  drowned  in  her  long  dim  hair. 

O'Driscoll  got  up  from  the  grass 
And  scattered  the  cards  with  a  cry  ; 

But  the  old  men  and  dancers  were  gone 
As  a  cloud  faded  into  the  sky. 

He  knew  now  the  folk  of  the  air, 

And  his  heart  was  blackened  by  dread, 

And  he  ran  to  the  door  of  his  house  ; 
Old  women  were  keening  the  dead  ; 


But  he  heard  high  up  in  the  air 
A  piper  piping  away  ; 

And  never  was  piping  so  sad 
And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  OLD 
MOTHER 

I  RISE  in  the  dawn,  and  I  kneel  and  blow 
Till  the  seed  of  the  fire  flicker  and  glow. 
And   then   I   must  scrub,  and  bake,  and 

sweep, 
Till    stars    are    beginning    to    blink    and 

peep; 
But  the  young  lie  long  and  dream  in  their 

bed 
Of  the  matching  of  ribbons,  the  blue  and 

the  red, 

And  their  day  goes  over  in  idleness, 
And  they  sigh  if  the  wind  but  lift  up  a 

tress  ; 

While  I  must  work,  because  I  am  old 
And  the  seed  of  the  fire  gets  feeble  and 

cold. 


IMliam 


("A.  E.") 


SELF-DISCIPLINE 


WHEN  the  soul  sought  refuge  in  the  place 
of  rest, 

Overborne  by  strife  and  pain  beyond  con- 
trol, 

From  some   secret  hollow,   whisper  soft- 
confessed, 
Came  the  legend  of  the  soul. 

Some  bright  one  of  old  time  laid  his  scep- 
tre down, 

So  his  heart  might  learn  of  sweet  and  bit- 
ter truth  ; 

Going  forth  bereft  of  beauty,  throne,  and 

crown, 
And  the  sweetness  of  his  youth. 

So  the   old   appeal   and  fierce  revolt  we 

make 
Through  the  world's  hour  dies  within  our 

primal  will  ; 


And  we  justify  the  pain  and  hearts  that 

break, 
And  our  lofty  doom  fulfilled. 


KRISHNA 

"  I  am  Beauty  itself  among  beautiful  things."  — 
BHAGAVAD-GITA. 

THE    East  was   crowned   with   snow-cold 

bloom 

And  hung  with  veils  of  pearly  fleece  : 
They  died  away  into  the  gloom, 
Vistas  of  peace  —  and  deeper  peace. 

And  earth  and  air  and  wave  and  fire 
In  awe  and  breathless  silence  stood  ; 
For  One  who  passed  into  their  choir 
Linked  them  in  mystic  brotherhood. 

Twilight  of  amethyst,  amid 

Thy  few  strange  stars  that  lit  the  heights, 


6o6 


RECENT   POETS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


Where  was  the  secret  spirit  hid  ? 

Where  was  Thy  place,  O  Light  of  Lights  ? 

The  flame  of  Beauty  far  in  space  — 
Where  rose  the  fire  :  in  Thee  ?  in  Me  ? 
Which  bowed  the  elemental  race 
To  adoration  silently  ? 


THE  GREAT  BREATH 

ITS  edges  foamed  with  amethyst  and  rose, 
Withers  once  more  the  old  blue  flower  of 

day: 

There  where  the  ether  like  a  diamond  glows 
Its  petals  fade  away. 

A  shadowy  tumult  stirs  the  dusky  air  ; 

Sparkle    the    delicate    dews,   the    distant 
snows  ; 

The  great  deep  thrills,  for  through  it  every- 
where 
The  breath  of  Beauty  blows. 

I  saw  how  all  the  trembling  ages  past, 
Moulded  to  her  by  deep  and  deeper  breath, 
Neared  to  the  hour  when  Beauty  breathes 

her  last 
And  knows  herself  in  death. 


THE  MAN  TO  THE  ANGEL 

I  HAVE  wept  a  million  tears. 
Pure  and  proud  one,  where  are  thine  ? 
What  the  gain,  though  all  thy  years 
In  unbroken  beauty  shine  ? 

All  your  beauty  cannot  win 
Truth  we  learn  in  pain  and  sighs  : 
You  can  never  enter  in 
To  the  Circle  of  the  Wise. 

They  are  but  the  slaves  of  light 
Who  have  never  known  the  gloom, 
And  between  the  dark  and  bright 
Willed  in  freedom  their  own  doom. 

Think  not  In  your  pureness  there 
That  our  pain  but  follows  sin  : 
There  are  fires  for  those  who  dare 
Seek  the  throne  of  might  to  win. 

Pure  one,  from  your  pride  refrain  : 
Dark  and  lost  amid  the  strife, 


I  am  myriad  years  of  pain 
Nearer  to  the  fount  of  life. 

When  defiance  fierce  is  thrown 
At  the  god  to  whom  you  bow, 
Rest  the  lips  of  the  Unknown 
Tenderest  upon  my  brow. 

OM 

A   MEMORY 

FAINT  grew  the  yellow  buds  of  light 
Far  flickering  beyond  the  snows, 
As  leaning  o'er  the  shadowy  white 
Morn  glimmered  like  a  pale  primrose. 

Within  an  Indian  vale  below 
A  child  said  "  OM  "  with  tender  heart, 
Watching  with  loving  eyes  the  glow 
In  dayshine  fade  and  night  depart. 

The  word  which  Brahma  at  his  dawn 
Outbreathes  and  endeth  at  his  night, 
Whose  tide  of  sound  so  rolling  on 
Gives  birth  to  orbs  of  pearly  light ; 

And  beauty,  wisdom,  love,  and  youth, 
By  its  enchantment  gathered  grow 
In  agelong  wandering  to  the  Truth, 
Through  many  a  cycle's  ebb  and  flow. 

And  here  the  voice  of  earth  was  stilled, 
The  child  was  lifted  to  the  Wise  : 
A  strange  delight  his  spirit  filled, 
And  Brahm  looked  from  his  shining  eyes. 

IMMORTALITY 

WE  must  pass  like  smoke  or  live  within 

the  spirit's  fire, 
For  we  can  no  more  than  smoke  unto  the 

flame  return, 
If  our  thought  has  changed  to  dream  or 

will  unto  desire. 
As  smoke  we  vanish  though  the  fire  may 

burn. 

Lights  of  infinite  pity  star  the  gray  dusk 

of  our  days  : 
Surely  here  is  soul  ;  with  it  we  have  et«r« 

nal  breath  : 
In  the  fire  of  love  we  live  or  pass  by  many 

ways, 
By  unnumbered  ways  of  dream  to  death. 


THEODORE  WR  ATI  SLAW  — MARY  C.  G.  BYRON 


607 


THE    MUSIC-HALL 

THE  curtain  on  the  grouping  dancers  falls, 
The  heaven  of  color  has  vanished  from  our 

eyes  ; 
Stirred  in  our  seats  we  wait  with  vague 

surmise 
What   haply  comes  that  pleases   or  that 

palls. 
Touched   on    the   stand    the   thrice-struck 

baton  calls, 
Once  more  I  watch'^the  unfolding  curtain 

rise, 

I  hear  the  exultant  violins  premise 
The  well-known  tune  that  thrills  me  and 

enthralls. 

Then  trembling  in  my  joy  I  see  you  flash 
Before  the  footlights  to  the  cymbals'  clash, 
With  laughing  lips,  swift  feet,  and  brilliant 

glance, 
You,   fair  as    heaven   and    as   a   rainbow 

bright, 
You,  queen  of  song  and  empress  of  the 

dance, 
Flower  of  mine  eyes,  my  love,  my  heart's 

delight ! 

EXPECTATION 

COME  while  the  afternoon  of  May 
Is  sweet  with  many  a  lilac-spray, 


Come  while  the  sparrows  chirping  fare 
From  branch  to  branch  across  the  square. 

Come  like  the  dawn  and  bring  to  me 
The  fresh  winds  of  an  open  sea, 
Come  like  the  stars  of  night  and  bear 
All  consolation  in  thine  hair. 

Bring  me  release  from  ancient  pain, 
Bring  me  the  hopes  of  joy  found  vain, 
Bring  me  thy  sweetness  of  the  dove, 
Come,  sweet,  and  bring  thyself  and  love  ! 


A  VAIN  DESIRE 

DEAR,  did  you  know  how  sweet  to  me 
Was  every  glance  of  yours,  how  sweet 

The  laugh  that  lights  your  face  with  glee, 
The  passing  murmur  of  your  feet, 

And    seeing    perchance    with    grief    hovr 
vain 

The  love  that  makes  you  sadly  dear 
Did  grant  for  my  unuttered  pain 

A  whispered  word,  a  smile,  a  tear 

Dropped  like  a  star  from  Paradise, 
Then  might  I  bless  my  weary  state, 

Though  you  behold  me  from  the  skies 
And  I  on  earth  am  desolate. 


C 


(M.   C.   GILLINGTON) 


THE  TRYST  OF  THE  NIGHT 

OUT  of  the  uttermost  ridge  of  dusk, 
where  the  dark  and  the  day  are 
mingled, 

The  voice  of  the  Night  rose  cold  and 
calm — it  called  through  the  shadow- 
swept  air  ; 

Through  all  the  valleys  and  lone  hillsides, 

it  pierced,  it  thrilled,  it  tingled  — 
It  summoned  me  forth  to  the  wild  sea- 
shore,  to    meet    with   its    mystery 
there. 


Out  of  the  deep  ineffable  blue,,  with  palpi- 
tant swift  repeating 
Of  gleam  and  glitter  and  opaline  glow, 

that  broke  in  ripples  of  light  — 
In  burning  glory  it   came  and  went,  —  I 

heard,  I  saw  it  beating, 
Pulse  by  pulse,  from  star  to  star,  —  the 
passionate  heart  of  the  Night  I 

Out  of  the  thud  of  the  rustling  sea  —  the 

panting,  yearning,  throbbing 
Waves  that  stole  on  the  startled  shore, 
with  coo  and  mutter  of  spray  — 


6o8 


RECENT  POETS   OF    GREAT   BRITAIN 


The  wail  of  the  Night  came  fitful-faint,  — 

I  heard  her  stifled  sobbing  : 
The  cold  salt  drops  fell  slowly,  slowly, 
gray  into  gulfs  of  gray. 

There  through  the  darkness  the  great 
world  reeled,  and  the  great  tides 
roared,  assembling — • 

Murmuring  hidden  things  that  are  past, 

and  secret  things  that  shall  be  ; 
There  at  the  limits  of   life  we  met,  and 
touched    with    a    rapturous    trem- 
bling — 

One  with  each  other,  I  and  the  Night, 
and  the  skies,  and  the  stars,  and 
sea. 

THE  FAIRY  THRALL 

ON  gossamer  nights  when  the  moon  is  low, 

And  stars  in  the  mist  are  hiding, 
^Over  the  hill  where  the  foxgloves  grow 
You  may  see  the  fairies  riding. 
Kling  !  Klang  !  Kling  ! 
Their  stirrups  and  their  bridles  ring, 


And   their    horns    are    loud    and   theii 

bugles  blow, 
When  the  moon  is  low. 

They  sweep  through  the  night  like  a  whis- 
tling wind, 

They  pass  and  have  left  no  traces  ; 
But  one  of  them  lingers  far  behind 
The  flight  of  the  fairy  faces. 
She  makes  no  moan, 
She  sorrows  in  the  dark  alone, 
She  wails  for  the  love  of  human  kind, 
Like  a  whistling  wind. 

"  Ah  !  why  did  I  roam  where   the  elfins 

ride, 

Their  glimmering  steps  to  follow  ? 
They  bore  me  far  from   my  loved  one's 

side, 

To  wander  o'er  hill  and  hollow. 
Kling  !  Klang  !  Kling  ! 
Their  stirrups  and  their  bridles  ring, 
But  my  heart  is  cold  in  the  cold  night- 
tide, 
Where  the  elfins  ride." 


THE  SEVEN  WHISTLERS 

"WHISTLING     strangely,    whistling     sadly, 
whistling  sweet  and  clear, 

The    Seven    Whistlers    have    passed    thy 
house,  Pentruan  of  Porthmeor  ; 

It  was  not  in  the  morning,  nor  the  noon- 
day's golden  grace, 

It  was  in  the  dead  waste  midnight,  when 
the  tide  yelped  loud  in  the  Race  ; 

The  tide  swings  round  in  the  Race,  and 
they  're  plaining  whisht  and  low, 

And  they  come  from  the  gray  sea-marshes, 
where  the  gray  sea-lavenders  grow  ; 

And  the  cotton  grass  sways  to  and  fro  ; 
And  the  gore-sprent  sundews  thrive 
With  oozy  hands  alive. 

Canst   hear  the   curlews'  whistle    through 
thy  dreamings  dark  and  drear, 

How  they  're  crying,  crying,  crying,  Pen- 
truan of  Porthmeor  ? 

Shall  thy  hatchment,  mouldering  grimly  in 
yon  church  amid  the  sands, 


Stay  trouble  from  thy  household  ?     Or  the 

carven  cherub-hands 
Which  hold  thy  shield  to  the   font?     Or 

the  gauntlets  on  the  wall 
Keep  evil  from  its  onward  course,  as  the 

great  tides  rise  and  fall  ? 
The  great  tides  rise  and  fall,  and  the  cave 

sucks  in  the  breath 
Of  the  wave  when  it  runs  with  tossing  spray, 

and  the  ground-sea  rattles  of  Death  ; 
"  I  rise  in  the  shallows,"  'a  saith, 

"  Where  the  mermaid's  kettle  sings, 
And  the  black  shag  flaps  his  wings  !  " 
Ay,  the  green  sea-mountain  leaping  may 

lead  horror  in  its  rear, 
When  thy  drenched  sail  leans  to  its  yawn- 
ing trough  Pentruan  of  Porthmeor  ! 

Yet  the  stoup  waits  at  thy  doorway  for  its 

load  of  glittering  ore, 
And  thy  ships  lie  in  the  tideway,  and  thy 

flocks  along  the  moor  ; 
And  thine  arishes  gleam  softly  when  the 

October  moonbeams  wane, 


ALICE  E.   GILLINGTON 


609 


When  in  the  bay  all  shining  the  fishers  set 

the  seine  ; 
The  fishers  cast  the  seine,  and 't  is  "  Heva  ! " 

in  the  town, 
And  from  the  watch-rock  on  the  hill  the 

huers  are  shouting  down  ; 
And  ye  hoist  the  mainsail  brown, 
As  over  the  deep-sea  roll 
The  lurker  follows  the  shoal  ; 
To  follow  and  to  follow,  in  the  moonshine 

silver-clear, 
When  the  halyards  creak  to  thy  dipping 

sail,  Pentruan  of  Porthmeor  ! 

And  wailing,  and   complaining,  and  whis- 
tling whisht  and  clear, 

The  Seven  Whistlers  have  passed  thy  house, 
Pentruan  of  Porthmeor  ! 

It  was  not  in  the  morning,  nor  the  noon- 
day's golden  grace,  — 

It  was  in  the  fearsome  midnight,  when  the 
tide-dogs  yelped  in  the  Race  : 

—  The  tide  swings  round  in  the  Race,  and 
they  're  whistling  whisht  and  low, 

And  they  come  from  the  lonely  heather, 
where  the  fur-edged  foxgloves  blow  ; 

And  the  moor-grass  sways  to  and  fro  ; 
Where  the  yellow  moor-birds  sigh, 
And  the  sea-cooled  wind  sweeps  by. 

Canst  hear  the   curlews'  whistle   through 
the  darkness  wild  and  drear,  — 

How  they  're  calling,  calling,  calling,  Pen- 
truan of  Porthmeor  ? 

THE   ROSY  MUSK-MALLOW 
(ROMANY  LOVE-SOXG) 

THE  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  where  the 

south  wind  blows, 
O  my  gypsy  rose  ! 
In  the  deep  dark  lanes  where  thou  and  I 

must  meet  ; 
So  sweet  ! 
Before  the  harvest  moon's  gold  glints  over 

the  down, 
Or  the  brown-sailed  trawler  returns  to  the 

gray  sea-town, 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  sways,  and  the  south 

wind's  laughter  » 

Follows  our  footsteps  after  ! 

The    rosy  musk-mallow    blooms    by    the 

moor-brook's  flow, 
So  daintily  0  ! 


Where  thou  and  I  in  the  silence  of  night 

must  pass, 
My  lass  ! 

Over  the  stream  with  its  ripple  of  song, 
to-night, 

We   will  fly,   we   will  run   together,   my 
heart's  delight ! 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  sways,  and  the  moor- 
brook's  laughter 
Follows  our  footsteps  after  ! 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  within  sound 

of  the  sea ; 
It  curtseys  to  thee, 
O  my  gypsy-queen,  it  curtseys  adown  to 

thy  feet ; 
So  sweet ! 
When  dead  leaves  drift  through  the  dusk 

of  the  autumn  day, 
And  the  red  elf-lanthorns   hang  from  the 

spindle-spray, 
The    rosy    musk-mallow  sways,   and    the 

sea 's  wild  laughter 
Follows  our  footsteps  after  ! 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  where  the- 

dim  wood  sleeps, 
And  the  bind-weed  creeps  ; 
Through  tangled  wood-paths  unknown  we: 

must  take  our  flight, 
To-night !  * 

As  the  pale  hedge-lilies  around  the  dark 

elder  wind, 
Clasp  thy  white  arms  about  me,  nor  look 

behind. 
The  rosy  musk-mallow  is  closed,  and  the 

soft  leaves'  laughter 
Follows  our  footsteps  after  ! 


THE  DOOM-BAR 

0  D'  YOU  hear  the  seas  complainin',  and 

complainin',  whilst  it 's  rainin'  ? 
Did  you   hear  it   mourn  in  the  dimorts,1 
when  the  surf  woke  up  and  sighed  ? 
The  choughs  screamed  on  the  sand, 
And  the  foam  flew  over  land, 
And  the  seas  rolled  dark  on  the  Doom- 
Bar  at  rising  of  the  tide. 

1  gave  my  lad  a  token,  when  he  left  me 

nigh  heart-broken, 

To  mind  him  of  old  Padstow  town,  where 
loving  souls  abide  ; 


Twilight. 


6io 


RECENT  POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


'T  was  a  ring  with  the  words  set 
All  round,  "  Can  Love  Forget  ?  " 
And  I  watched  his  vessel  toss  on  the  Bar 
with  the  outward-turning  tide. 

D'  you  hear  the  seas  complainin',  and  com- 

plainin',  while  it's  rainin'  ? 
And  his  vessel  has  never  crossed  the  Bar 

from  the  purple  seas  outside  ; 
And  down  the  shell-pink  sands, 
Where  we  once  went,  holding  hands, 
Alone  I  watch  the  Doom-Bar  and  the  ris- 
ing of  the  tide. 

One  day  —  't  was  four  years   after  —  the 

harbor-girls,  with  laughter 
So  soft  and  wild  as  sea-gulls  when  they  're 

playing  seek-and-hide, 
Coaxed  me  out  —  for  the  tides  were 

lower 

Than  had  ever  been  known  before  ; 
And   we    ran  across    the    Doom-Bar,   all 
white  and  shining  wide. 

I  saw  a  something  shinin',  where  the  long, 
wet  weeds  were  twinin' 


Around  a  rosy  scallop  ;  and  gold  a  ring  laj 

inside  ; 

And  around  its  rim  were  set 
The  words  "  Can  Love  Forget  ?  "  — 
And  there  upon  the  Doom-Bar  I  knelt  and 
sobbed  and  cried. 

I  took  my  ring  and  smoothed  it  where  the 

sand  and  shells  had  grooved  it  ; 
But  O  !  St.  Petrock  bells  will  never  ring 

me  home  a  bride  !  — 
For  the  night  my  lad  was  leavin' 
Me,  all  tearful-eyed  and  grievin', 
He  had  tossed  my  keepsake   out  on   the 
Bar   to   the    rise    and   fall  of  the 
tide! 

Do  you  hear  the  seas  complainin',  and  com- 

plaiuin',  while  it 's  rainin'  ? 
Did   you   hear  them   call  in   the  dimorts, 
when  the  surf  woke  up  and  sighed  ? 
Maybe  it  is  a  token 
I  shall  go  no  more  heart-broken  — 
And  I  shall   cross  the   Doom-Bar  at  the 
turning  of  the  tide. 


•  JBDora 

ALL   SOULS'   NIGHT 

(O  MOTHER,  mother,  I  swept  the  hearth,  I 

set  his  chair  and  the  white   board 

spread, 
.1  prayed  for  his  coming  to  our  kind  Lady 

when  Death's  sad  doors  would  let 

out  the  dead  ; 
A  strange  wind  rattled  the  window-pane, 

and  down  the  lane  a  dog  howled  on. 
I  called  his  name  and  the   candle   flame 

burnt  dim,  pressed  a  hand  the  door- 
latch  upon. 
Deelish !   Deelish !   my   woe   forever  that 

I  could  not  sever  coward  flesh  from 

fear. 
I  called  his  name  and  the  pale  Ghost  came  ; 

but  I  was  afraid  to  meet  my  dear. 
0  mother,  mother,  in  tears  I  checked  the 

sad  hours  past  of  the  year  that's 

o'er, 


Till  by  God's  grace  I  might  see  his  face 

and  hear  the  sound  of  his  voice  once 

more  ; 
The  chair  I  set  from  the  cold  and  wet,  he 

took  when  he  came  from  unknown 

skies 
Of  the  land  of  the  dead ;  on  my  bent  brown 

head  I  felt  the  reproach  of  his  sad- 
dened eyes  ; 
I  closed   my  lids   on   my   heart's   desire, 

crouched  by  the  fire,  my  voice  was 

dumb  ; 
At    my   clean-swept    hearth    he    had    no 

mirth,  and  at  my  table  he  broke  no 

crumb. 
Deelish  !  Deelish !  my  woe  forever  that  I 

could  not  sever  coward  flesh  from 
*       fear  : 
His  chair  put  aside  when  the  young  cock 

cried,  and  I  was  afraid  to  meet  my 

dear. 


PERCY  ADDLESHAW  — OLIVE   CUSTANCE 


611 


SCfctrtegfjato 


("  PERCY  HEMINGWAY  ") 

THE   HAPPY  WANDERER 


HE  is  the  happy  wanderer,  who  goes 
Singing  upon  his  way,  with  eyes  awake 
To  every  scene,  with  ears  alert  to  take 
The  sweetness  of  all  sounds  ;  who  loves  and 

knows 

The  secrets  of  the  highway,  and  the  rose 
Holds  fairer  for  the  wounds  the  briars  make ; 
Who  welcomes  rain,  that  he  his  thirst  may 

slake,  — 
The    sun,   because    it   dries    his    dripping 

clothes  ; 

Treasures  experience  beyond  all  store, 
Careless  if  pain  or  pleasure  he  shall  win, 
So  that  his  knowledge  widens  more  and 

more 

Ready  each  hour  to  worship  or  to  sin  ; 
Until  tired,  wise,  content,  he  halts  before 
The  sign  o '  the  Grave,  a  cool  and  quiet  inn. 

TRAVELLERS 

WE  shall  lodge  at  the  sign  of  the  Grave, 

you  say ; 
Well,  the  road  is  a  long  one  we  trudge,  my 

friend, 


So  why  should  we  grieve  at  the  break  of 

the  day  ? 
Let  us  sing,  let  us  drink,  let  us  love,  let  us 

play,  — 
We  can  keep  our  sighs  for  the  journey's 

end. 

We  shall  lodge  at  the  sign  o'  the  Grave, 

you  say  ; 
Well,  since  we  are  nearing  our  journey's 

end, 
Our  hearts  should  be  happy  while  yet  they 

may  : 
Let  us  sing,  let  us  drink,  let  us  love,  let 

us  play, 
For    perhaps  it's  a    comfortless  inn,  my 

friend. 


IT    MAY   BE 

IT  may  be  we  shall  know  in  the  here- 
after 

Why  we,  begetting  hopes,  give  birth  to 
fears, 

And  why  the  world's  too  beautiful  for 
laughter, 

Too  gross  for  tears. 


distance 


THE  WAKING  OF  SPRING 


SPIRIT  of  Spring,  thy  coverlet  of  snow 
Hath  fallen  from  thee,  with  its  fringe  of 

frost, 
And  where  the  river  late  did  overflow 

Sway  fragile  white  anemones,  wind-tost, 
And  in  the  woods   stand   snowdrops,  half 

asleep, 
With  drooping  heads  —  sweet  dreamers  so 

long  lost. 

Spirit,  arise  !  for  crimson  flushes  creep 
Into  the  cold  gray  east,  where  clouds  as- 

semble 
To  meet  the  sun  :  and  earth  hath  ceased  to 

weep. 


Her  tears  tip  every  blade  of  grass,  and 
tremble, 

Caught  in  the  cup  of  every  flower.  O 
Spring ! 

I  see  thee  spread  thy  pinions, —  they  re- 
semble 

Large    delicate   leaves,   all   silver-veined, 

that  fling 

Frail  floating  shadows  on  the  forest  sward  ; 
And  all  the  birds   about  thee    build  and 

sing  1 

Blithe  stranger  from  the.  gardens  of  our 

God, 

We  welcome  thee,  for  one  is  at  thy  side 
Whose  voice  is  thrilling  music,  Love,  thy 

Lord, 


6l2 


RECENT   POETS   OF  GREAT   BRITAIN 


Whose  tender  glances  stir  thy  soul,  whose 

wide 
Wings   wave  above  thee,  thou  awakened 

bride  ! 


TWILIGHT 

SPIRIT  of  Twilight,  through  your  folded 

wings 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  averted  face, 
And    rapturous    on    a    sudden,    my    soul 

sings 

"Is    not    this    common    earth    a    holy 
place  ?  " 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  you  are  like  a  song 
That  sleeps,  and  waits  a  singer,  —  like  a 

hymn 
That  God  finds  lovely  and  keeps  near  Him 

long, 
Till  it  is  choired  by  aureoled  cherubim. 

Spirit  of  Twilight,  in  the  golden  gloom 
Of  dreamland  dim  I  sought  you,  and  I 

found 
A  woman  sitting  in  a  silent  room 

Full  of  white  flowers  that  moved   and 
made  no  sound. 

These  white  flowers  were  the  thoughts  you 

bring  to  all, 
And  the  room's  name  is  Mystery  where 

you  sit, 
Woman    whom    we   call    Twilight,    when 

night's  pall 
You  lift  across  our  Earth  to  coyer  it. 


THE   PARTING   HOUR 

NOT  yet,  dear  love,  not  yet :  the  sun  is  high  ; 

You  said  last  night  "At  sunset  I  will  go." 

Come  to  the  garden,  where  when  blossoms 

die 

No  word  is  spoken  ;  it  is  better  so  : 
Ah  !  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 

Hark  !  how  the  birds  sing  sunny  songs  of 

spring  ! 

Soon  they  will  build,  and  work  will  si- 
lence them  ; 
So   we  grow  less  light-hearted  as  years 

bring 

Life's  grave  responsibilities  —  and  then 
The  bitter  word  "Farewell." 

The  violets  fret  to  fragrance  'neath  your 

feet, 
Heaven's   gold    sunlight  dreams   aslant 

your  hair  : 
No  flower  for  me !  your  mouth  is  far  more 

sweet. 
O,  let  jtny  lips   forget,  while  lingering 

there, 
Love's  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 


Sunset  already  !  have  we  sat  so  long  ? 
The  parting  hour,  and  so  much  left  un- 
said ! 
The   garden   has  grown    silent  —  void   of 

song, 
Our  sorrow  shakes   us   with  a  sudden 

dread ! 
Ah  !  bitter  word  "  Farewell." 


IV 
COLONIAL   POETS 

(INDIA  — AUSTRALASIA  — DOMINION  OF  CANADA) 
1837-1894 


ENGLAND  AND  HER  COLONIES 

SHE  stands,  a  thousand-wintered  tree, 

By  countless  morns  impearled ; 
Her  broad  roots  coil  beneath  the  sea, 

Her  branches  sweep  the  world ; 
Her  seeds,  by  careless  winds  conveyed, 

Clothe  the  remotest  strand 
With  forests  from  her  scatterings  made, 
New  nations  fostered  in  her  shade, 

And  linking  land  with  land. 

O  ye  by  wandering  tempest  sown 

'Neath  every  alien  star, 
Forget  not  whence  the  breath  was  blown 

That  wafted  you  afar ! 
For  ye  are  still  her  ancient  seed 

On  younger  soil  let  fall  — 
Children  of  Britain's  island-breed, 
To  whom  the  Mother  in  her  need 

Perchance  may  one  day  call. 

WILLIAM  WATSON, 
POEMS:  1893. 


COLONIAL   POETS 
(INDIA  —  AUSTRALASIA  —  DOMINION  OF  CANADA) 


INDIA 

See  TORU  DUTT,  RUDYARD  KIPLING,  in  the  preceding  division  of  this  Anthology. 
See  also,  in  the  second  division,  SIR  EDWIN  ARNOLD,  SIR  ALFRED 
of  English  birth,  and  sometime  resident  in  India 


AUSTRALASIA 
(See  also:  A.  DOMETT,  R.  H.  HORNE,  W.  SHARP,  D.  B.  W.  SLADEN) 


$crcp 

THE  BIRTH  OF  AUSTRALIA 

NOT  'mid  the  thunder  of  the  battle  guns, 
Not    on    the    red    field    of    an   Empire's 

wrath, 

Rose  to  a  nation  Australasia's  sons, 
Who  tread  to   greatness   Industry's   pure 

path. 
Behold    a    people,  through   whose   annals 

runs 
No  damning  stain  of  falsehood,  force,  or 

fraud ; 


Whose  sceptre  is  the  ploughshare  —  not 
the  sword  — 

Whose  glory  lives  in  harvest-ripening  suns  ! 

Where  'mid  the  records  of  old  Rome  or 
Greece 

Glows  such  a  tale  ?  Thou  canst  not  an- 
swer, Time. 

With  shield  unsullied  by  a  single  crime, 

With  wealth  of  gold,  and  still  more  golden 
fleece, 

Forth  stands  Australia,  in  her  birth  sublime, 

The  only  nation  from  the  womb  of  Peace  ! 


A  MIDSUMMER'S   NOON  IN  THE 
AUSTRALIAN    FOREST 

NOT  a  sound  disturbs  the  air, 
There  is  quiet  everywhere  ; 
Over  plains  and  over  woods 
What  a  mighty  stillness  broods  ! 


All  the  birds  and  insects  keep 
Where  the  coolest  shadows  sleep  ; 
Even  the  busy  ants  are  found 
Resting  in  their  pebbled  mound  ; 
Even  the  locust  clingeth  now 
Silent  to  the  barky  bough  : 
Over  hills  and  over  plains 
Quiet,  vast  and  slumbrous,  reigns. 


6i6 


AUSTRALASIA 


Only  there  's  a  drowsy  humming 
From  yon  warm  lagoon  slow-coming  : 
'T  is  the  dragon-hornet  —  see  ! 
All  bedaubed  resplendently 
Yellow  on  a  tawny  ground  — 
Each  rich  spot  not  square  nor  round, 
Rudely  heart-shaped,  as  it  were 
The  blurred  and  hasty  impress  there 
Of  a  vermeil-crusted  seal 
Dusted  o'er  with  golden  meal. 
Only  there  's  a  droning  where 
Yon  bright  beetle  shines  in  air, 
Tracks  it  in  its  gleaming  flight 
With  a  slanting  beam  of  light 
Rising  in  the  sunshine  higher, 
Till  its  shards  flame  out  like  fire. 

Every  other  thing  is  still, 
Save  the  ever-wakeful  rill, 
Whose  cool  murmur  only  throws 
Cooler  comfort  round  repose  ; 
Or  some  ripple  in  the  sea, 
Of  leafy  boughs,  where,  lazily, 
Tired  summer,  in  her  bower 
Turning  with  the  noontide  hour, 
Heaves  a  slumbrous  breath  ere  she 
Once  more  slumbers  peacefully. 

Oh,  't  is  easeful  here  to  lie 
Hidden  from  noon's  scorching  eye, 
In  this  grassy  cool  recess 
Musing  thus  of  quietness. 


AN    ABORIGINAL    MOTHER'S 
LAMENT 

STILL  farther  would  I  fly,  my  child, 

To  make  thee  safer  yet 
From  the  unsparing  white  man, 

With  his  dread  hand  murder-wet  ! 


I  '11  bear  thee  on  as  I  have  borne 
With  stealthy  steps  wind-fleet, 

But  the  dark  night  shrouds  the  forest, 
And  thorns  are  in  my  feet. 

O  moan  not !    I  would  gi  ve  this  braid  — 
Thy  father's  gift  to  me  — 

But  for  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  thee. 

Ah,  spring  not  to  his  name  —  no  more 

To  glad  us  may  he  come  — 
He  is  smouldering  into  ashes 

Beneath  the  blasted  gum  ; 
All  charred  and  blasted  by  the  fire 

The  white  man  kindled  there, 
And  fed  with  our  slaughtered  kindred 

Till  heaven-high  went  its  glare  ! 

And  but  for  thee,  I  would  their  fire 

Had  eaten  me  as  fast  ! 
Hark  !     Hark  !     I  hear  his  death-cry 

Yet  lengthening  up  the  blast ! 
But  no  —  when  his  bound  hands  had  signed 

The  way  that  we  should  fly, 
On  the  roaring  pyre  flung  bleeding  — 

I  saw  thy  father  die  ! 

No  more  shall  his  loud  tomahawk 

Be  plied  to  win  our  cheer, 
Or  the  shining  fish  pools  darken 

Beneath  his  shadowing  spear  ; 
The  fading  tracks  of  his  fleet  foot 

Shall  guide  not  as  before, 
And  the  mountain-spirits  mimic 

His  hunting  call  no  more  ! 

O  moan  not !   I  would  give  this  braid  — 
Thy  father's  gift  to  me  — 

For  but  a  single  palmful 
Of  water  now  for  thee. 


ilotoe,  tt&rount 


SONG  OF  THE  SQUATTER 

THE  commissioner  bet  me  a  pony  —  I  won, 
So  he  cut  off  exactly  two-thirds  of  my  run  ; 
For  he  said  I  was  making  a  fortune  too 

fast, 
And  profit  gained  slower  the  longer  would 

last. 


He  remarked,  as  devouring  my  mutton  he 
sat, 

That  I  suffered  my  sheep  to  grow  sadly 
too  fat  ; 

That  they  wasted  waste  land,  did  preroga- 
tive brown, 

And  rebelliously  nibbled  the  droits  of  the 
Crown  ; 


ADAM    LINDSAY   GORDON 


617 


That  the  creek  that  divided  my  station  in 

two 
Showed  that   Nature   designed    that  two 

fees  should  be  due. 
Mr.  Riddle  assured  me  't  was  paid  but  for 

show, 
But  he  kept  it  and  spent  it,  that  'a  all  that 

I  know. 

The  commissioner  fined  me  because  I  for- 
got 

To  return  an  old  ewe  that  was  ill  of  the 
rot, 

And  a  poor  wry-necked  lamb  that  we  kept 
for  a  pet  ; 

And  he  said  it  was  treason  such  things  to 
forget. 

The  commissioner  pounded  my  cattle  be- 
cause 

They  had  mumbled  the  scrub  with  their 
famishing  jaws 

On  the  part  of  the  run  he  had  taken  away, 

And  he  sold  them  by  auction  the  costs  to 
defray. 

The  border  police  they  were  out  all  the 
day 

To  look  for  some  thieves  who  had  ran- 
sacked my  dray  ; 

But  the  thieves  they  continued  in  quiet 
and  peace, 

For  they  'd  robbed  it  themselves,  had  the 
border  police  ! 

When  the  white  thieves  had  left  me  the 

black  thieves  appeared, 
My   shepherds    they   waddied,    my   cattle 

they  speared  ; 
But  from  fear  of  my  license  I  said  not  a 

word, 


For  I  knew  it  was  gone  if  the  Government 
heard. 

The  commissioner's  bosom  with  anger  was 

•     filled 
Against  me  because  my  poor  shepherd  was 

killed ; 
So  he  straight  took  away  the  last  third  of 

my  run, 
And  got  it  transferred  to  the  name  of  his 


The  son  had  from  Cambridge  been  lately 

expelled, 
And  his  license  for  preaching  most  justly 

withheld  ! 

But  this  is  no  cause,  the  commissioner  says, 
Why  he  should  not  be  fit  for  my  license  to 

graze. 

The  cattle,  that  had  not  been  sold  at  the 
pound, 

He  took  with  the  run  at  five  shillings  all 
round, 

And  the  sheep  the  blacks  left  me  at  six- 
pence a  head,  — 

A  very  good  price,  the  commissioner  said. 

The  Governor  told  me  I  justly  was  served, 
That  commissioners  never  from  duty  had 

swerved  ; 

But  that  if  I  'd  a  fancy  for  any  more  land 
For  one  pound  an  acre  he  'd  plenty  on  hand. 

I  'm  not  very  proud !     I  can  dig  in  a  bog, 
Feed  pigs,  or  for  firewood  can  split  up  a 

log> 
Clean  shoes,  riddle  cinders,  or  help  to  boil 

down  — 
Anything  that  you  please,  but  graze  lands 

of  the  Crown  ! 


2ttram 


A  LAY  OF  THE  LOAMSHIRE  HUNT  CUP 

*  AYE,  squire,"  said  Stevens,  "  they  back 

him  at  evens  •, 

The  race  is  all  over,  bar  shouting,  they 
say  ; 


The  Clown  ought  to  beat  her  ;  Dick  Neville 

is  sweeter 

Than  ever  —  he  swears  he  can  win  all 
the  way. 

"  A  gentleman  rider  —  well,  I  'm  an  out- 
sider, 

But  if  he  's  a  gent  who  the  mischief 's  a 
jock? 


6i8 


AUSTRALASIA 


You  swells  mostly  blunder,  Dick  rides  for 

the  plunder, 

He  rides,  too,  like  thunder  —  he  sits  like 
a  rock. 

"  He  calls  '  hunted  fairly  '  a  horse  that  has 

barely 
Been  stripped  for  a  trot  within  sight  of 

the  hounds, 
A  horse   that  at  Warwick  beat  Birdlime 

and  Yorick, 

And  gave  Abdelkader  at  Aintrec   nine 
pounds. 

"  They  say  we  have  no  test  to  warrant  a 

protest ; 
Dick  rides  for  a  lord  and  stands  in  with 

a  steward  ; 
The  light  of  their  faces  they  show  him  — 

his  case  is 

Prejudged   and  his   verdict  already  se- 
cured. 

"  But  none  can  outlast  her,  and  few  travel 

faster, 
She  strides  in  her  work  clean  away  from 

The  Drag  ; 
You  hold  her  and  sit  her,  she  could  n't  be 

fitter, 

Whenever  you  hit  her  she  '11  spring  like 
a  stag. 

"And   p'raps    the    green   jacket,   at   odds 

though  they  back  it, 
May  fall,  or  there  's   no  knowing  what 

may  turn  up. 
The  mare  is  quite  ready,  sit  still  and  ride 

steady, 

Keep  cool  ;  and  I   think  you  may  just 
win  the  Cup." 

Dark-brown  with  tan  muzzle,  just  stripped 

for  the  tussle, 

Stood  Iseult,  arching  her  neck  to  the  curb, 
A  lean  head  and  fiery,  strong  quarters  and 

wiry, 
A  loin  rather  light,  but  a  shoulder  superb. 

Some    parting    injunction,    bestowed   with 

great  unction, 

I  tried  to  recall,  but  forgot  like  a  dunce, 
When  Reginald  Murray,  full  tilt  on  White 

Surrey, 

Came  down  in  a   hurry  to  start  us  at 
once. 


"  Keep  back  in  the  yellow  !     Come  up  on 

Othello  ! 
Hold    hard    on    the    chestnut  !       Turn 

round  on  The  Drag  ! 
Keep  back  there  on  Spartan  !     Back  you, 

sir,  in  tartan  ! 

So,  steady  there,  easy,"  and  down  went 
the  flag. 

We  started,  and  Kerr  made  strong  running 

on  Mermaid. 
Through   furrows   that   led  to   the  first 

stake-and-bound, 
The  crack,  half  extended,  looked  bloodlike 

and  splendid, 

Held  wide  on  the  right  where  the  head- 
land was  sound. 

I  pulled  hard  to  baffle  her  rush  with  the 

snaffle, 
Before  her  two-thirds  of  the   field   got 

away, 
All  through  the  wet  pasture  where  floods 

of  the  last  year 

Still  loitered,  they  clotted   my  crimson 
with  clay. 

The  fourth  fence,  a  wattle,  floored  Monk 

and  Blue-bottle  ; 

The  Drag  came  to  grief  at  the  black- 
thorn and  ditch, 
The  rails  toppled  over  Redoubt  and  Red 

Rover, 

The  lane  stopped  Lycurgus  and  Leices- 
tershire Witch. 

She  passed  like  an  arrow  Kildare  and  Cock 

Sparrow, 
And  Mantrap  and  Mermaid  refused  the 

stone  wall  ; 
And  Giles  on  The  Greyling  came  down  at 

the  paling, 
And  I  was  left  sailing  in  front  of  them  all. 

I  took  them  a  burster,  nor  eased  her  nor 

nursed  her 
Until  the  Black  Bullfinch  led  into  the 

plough, 
And  through  the  strong  bramble  we  bored 

with  a  scramble  — 

My  cap  was  knocked  off  by  the  hazel- 
tree  bough. 

Where  furrows  looked  lighter  I  drew  the 
rein  tighter  ; 


ADAM   LINDSAY   GORDON 


619 


Her  dark  chest  all  dappled  with  flakes 

of  white  foam, 
Her  flanks   mud-bespattered,  a  weak  rail 

she  shattered  : 

We  landed  on  turf  with  our  heads  turned 
for  home. 

Then  crashed  a  low  binder,  and  then  close 

behind  her 
The  sward  to  the  strokes  of  the  favorite 

shook  ; 

His  rush  roused  her  mettle,  yet  ever  so  little 
She  shortened  her  stride  as  we  raced  at 
the  brook. 

She  rose  when  I  hit  her.     I  saw  the  stream 

glitter, 
A  wide  scarlet  nostril  flashed  close  to 

my  knee, 
Between  sky  and  water  The  Clown  came 

and  caught  her,  — 

The  space  that  he  cleared  was  a  caution 
to  see. 

And  forcing  the   running,   discarding  all 

cunning, 
A  length  to  the  front  went  the  rider  in 

green  ; 
A  long  strip  of  stubble,  and  then  the  big 

double, 

Two  stiff  flights  of  rails  with  a  quickset 
between. 

She  raced  at  the  rasper,  I  felt  my  knees 

grasp  her, 
I  found  my  hands  give  to  her  strain  on 

the  bit, 
She  rose  when  The  Clown  did  —  our  silks 

as  we  bounded 

Brushed  lightly,  our  stirrups  clashed  loud 
as  we  lit. 

A  rise  steeply  sloping,  a  fence  with  stone 

coping  — 
The  last  —  we  diverged  round  the  base 

of  the  hill  ; 
His  path  was  the  nearer,  his  leap  was  the 

clearer, 

I  flogged  up  the  straight,  and  he  led  sit- 
ting still. 

She  came   to   his  quarter,  and  on   still  I 

brought  her, 

And  up  to  his  girth,  to  his  breast-plate 
she  drew ; 


A  short  prayer  from  Neville  just  reached 

me,  —  "  The  Devil," 
He  muttered,  —  locked  level  the  hurdles 
we  flew. 

A  hum  of  hoarse  cheering,  a  dense  crowd 

careering, 
All  sights    seen    obscurely,   all    shouts 

vaguely  heard  ; 
"  The    green    wins  !  "     "  The    crimson  !  " 

The  multitude  swims  on, 
And  figures  are  blended  and  features  are 
blurred. 

"  The  horse  is  her  master  !  "    "  The  green 

forges  past  her  !  " 
"The  Clown  will  outlast  her  !  "     "The 

Clown  wins  ! "     "  The  Clown  !  " 
The  white  railing  races  with  all  the  white 

faces, 

The  chestnut  outpaces,  outstretches  the 
brown. 

On  still  past  the  gateway  she  strains  in  the 

straightway, 
Still  struggles,  "  The  Clown  by  a  short 

neck  at  most," 
He  swerves,  the  green  scourges,  the  stand 

rocks  and  surges, 

And  flashes,  and  verges,   and  flits  the 
white  post. 

Ay  !  so  ends  the  tussle,  —  I  knew  the  tan 

muzzle 
Was   first,   though   the    ring-men  were 

yelling  "  Dead  heat !  " 
A  nose  I  could  swear  by,  but  Clarke  said 

"  The  mare  by 

A  short   head."     And    that 's   how  the 
favorite  was  beat. 


THE    SICK   STOCK-RIDER 

HOLD  hard,  Ned  !  Lift  me  down  once  more, 

and  lay  me  in  the  shade. 
Old  man,  you  've  had  your  work  cut  out 

to  guide 
Both  horses,  and  to  hold  me  in  the  saddle 

when  I  swayed, 
All  through  the  hot,  slow,  sleepy,  silent 

ride. 
The   dawn   at  "  Moorabinda "  was  a   mist 

rack  dull  and  dense, 
The  sun-rise  was  a  sullen,  sluggish  lamp  ; 


620 


AUSTRALASIA 


I  was  dozing  in  the  gateway  at  Arbuthnot's 

bound'ry  fence, 
I  was  dreaming  on  the  Limestone  cattle 

camp. 
We  crossed  the  creek  at  Carricksford,  and 

sharply  through  the  haze, 
And  suddenly  the  sun  shot  flaming  forth  ; 
To  southward  lay  "  Katawa,"  with  the  sand 

peaks  all  ablaze, 
And  the  flushed  fields  of  Glen  Lomond 

lay  to  north. 
Now  westward  winds  the  bridle-path  that 

leads  to  Landisfarm, 
And    yonder  looms  the    double-headed 

Bluff  j 
From  the  far  side  of  the  first  hill  when  the 

skies  are  clear  and  calm, 
You  can   see   Sylvester's  woolshed  fair 
enough. 

Five  miles  we   used   to  call  it  from  our 

homestead  to  the  place 
Where  the  big  tree  spans  the  roadway 

like  an  arch  ; 
'T  was  here  we  ran  the  dingo  down  that 

gave  us  such  a  chase 
Eight  years  ago  —  or  was  it  nine  ?  — 

last  March. 
'T  was  merry  in  the  glowing  morn  among 

the  gleaming  grass, 
To  wander  as  we  've  wandered  many  a 

mile, 
And  blow  the  cool  tobacco  cloud,  and  watch 

the  white  wreaths  pass, 
Sitting  loosely  in  the  saddle  all  the  while. 
'T  was  merry  'mid  the  blackwoods,  when 

we  spied  the  station  roofs, 
To  wheel  the  wild  scrub  cattle  at  the  yard, 
With  a  running  fire  of  stock  whips  and  a 

fiery  run  of  hoofs  ; 

Oh  !  the  hardest  day  was  never  then  too 
hard  ! 

Aye  !  we  had  a  glorious  gallop  after  "  Star- 
light "  and  his  gang, 
When  they  bolted   from  Sylvester's  on 

the  flat ; 
How  the  sun-dried  reed-beds  crackled,  how 

the  flint-strewn  ranges  rang, 
To  the  strokes  of   "  Mountaineer "  and 

"  Acrobat,"  — 
Hard  behind  them  in  the  timber,  harder 

still  across  the  heath, 
Close  beside  them  through  the  tea-tree 
scrub  we  dashed  ; 


And   the    goldentinted    fern    leaves,    how 

they  rustled  underneath  : 
And   the   honeysuckle   osiers,  how  they 

crashed  ! 
We  led  the  hunt  throughout,  Ned,  on  the 

chestnut  and  the  gray, 
And   the  troopers   were   three  hundred 

yards  behind, 
While  we  emptied  our  six-shooters  on  the 

bush-rangers  at  bay, 
In  the  creek  with  stunted  box-trees  for 

a  blind ! 
There  you  grappled  with  the  leader,  man 

to  man,  and  horse  to  horse, 
And  you  rolled  together  when  the  chest- 
nut rear'd. 
He   blazed   away  and  missed  you  in  that 

shallow  water-course  — 
A  narrow  shave  —  his    powder    singed 
your  beard ! 

In  these   hours  when  life  is   ebbing,  how 

those  days  when  life  was  young 
Come  back  to  us  ;  how  clearly  I  recall 
Even  the  yarns   Jack  Hall  invented,  and 

the  songs  Jem  Roper  sung  ; 
And   where   are    now  Jem   Roper  and 
Jack  Hall  ? 

Aye !  nearly  all  our  comrades  of  the  old 

colonial  school, 
Our  ancient  boon  companions,  Ned,  are 

gone; 
Hard  livers  for  the   most  part,  somewhat 

reckless  as  a  rule, 
It  seems  that  you  and  I  are  left  alone. 

There   was   Hughes,   who   got   in   trouble 
through  that  business  with  the  cards, 
It  matters  little  what  became  of  him  ; 
But  a  steer  ripped  up  Macpherson  in  the 

Cooramenta  yards, 
And  Sullivan  was  drowned  at   Sink-or- 

swim  ; 
And  Mostyn  —  poor  Frank  Mostyn  —  died 

at  last,  a  fearful  wreck, 
In  the  "  horrors  "  at  the  Upper  Wandinong, 
And  Carisbrooke,  the  rider,  at  the  Horse- 
fall  broke  his  neck  — 
Faith  !   the   wonder  was    he   saved   his 

neck  so  long  ! 
Ah  !  those  days  and  nights  we  squandered 

at  the  Logans'  in  the  glen  — 
The   Logans,  man  and  wife,  have  long 
been  dead. 


JAMES   BRUNTON   STEPHENS 


621 


Elsie's  tallest  girl  seems  taller  than  your 

little  Elsie  then  ; 
And  Ethel  is  a  woman  grown  and  wed. 

I  've  had  my  share  of  pastime,  and  I  've 

done  my  share  of  toil, 
And  life   is   short  —  the   longest  life  a 

span  ; 
I  care  not  now  to  tarry  for  the  corn  or  for 

the  oil, 
Or  for  wine  that  maketh  glad  the  heart 

of  man. 
For  good  undone,  and  gifts  misspent,  and 

resolutions  vain, 
'Tis  somewhat  late  to  trouble.     This  I 

know  — 
I  should  live  the  same  life  over,  if  I  had  to 

live  again  ; 

And  the   chances  are  I  go  where  most 
men  go. 

The  deep  blue  skies  wax  dusky,  and  the 

tall  green  trees  grow  dim, 
The  sward  beneath  me  seems  to  heave 

and  fall  ; 
And   sickly,  smoky   shadows   through  the 

sleepy  sunlight  swim, 
And  on  the  very  sun's  face  weave  their 

pall. 
Let  me  slumber  in  the  hollow  where  the 

wattle  blossoms  wave, 
With  never  stone  or  rail   to  fence  my 

bed  ; 
Should  the  sturdy  station  children  pull  the 

bush-flowers  on  my  grave, 
I  may   chance   to   hear  them  romping 
overhead. 


VALEDICTORY 

LAY  me  low,  my  work  is  done, 
I  am  weary.     Lay  me  low, 


Where  the  wild  flowers  woo  the  sun, 
Where  the  balmy  breezes  blow, 

Where  the  butterfly  takes  wing, 
Where  the  aspens,  drooping,  grow, 

Where   the    young    birds    chirp   and 

sing  — 
I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

I  have  striven  hard  and  long 

In  the  world's  unequal  fight, 
Always  to  resist  the  wrong, 

Always  to  maintain  the  right. 
Always  with  a  stubborn  heart, 

Taking,  giving  blow  for  blow  ; 
Brother,  I  have  played  my  part, 

And  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Stern  the  world  and  bitter  cold, 

Irksome,  painful  to  endure  ; 
Everywhere  a  love  of  gold, 

Nowhere  pity  for  the  poor. 
Everywhere  mistrust,  disguise, 

Pride,  hypocrisy,  and  show  ; 
Draw  the  curtain,  close  mine  eyes, 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Other  chance  when  I  am  gone 

May  restore  the  battle-call, 
Bravely  lead  the  good  cause  on 

Fighting  in  the  which  I  fall. 
God  may  quicken  some  true  soul 

Here  to  take  my  place  below 
In  the  heroes'  muster  roll  — 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Shield  and  buckler,  hang  them  up, 

Drape  the  standards  on  the  wall, 
I  have  drained  the  mortal  cup 

To  the  finish,  dregs  and  all ; 
When  our  work  is  done,  't  is  best, 

Brother,  best  that  we  should  go— - 
I  am  weary,  let  me  rest, 

I  am  weary,  lay  me  low. 


THE   DOMINION  OF  AUSTRALIA 
(A  FORECAST) 

SHE  is  not  yet,  but  he  whose  ear 
Thrills  to  that  finer  atmosphere 


Where  footfalls  of  appointed  things, 

Reverberant  of  days  to  be, 
Are  heard  in  forecast  echoings, 

Like  wave-beats  from  a  viewless  sea  — 
Hears  in  the  voiceful  tremors  of  the  sky 
Auroral  heralds  whispering  "  She  is  nigh." 


622 


AUSTRALASIA 


She  is  not  yet  ;  but  he  whose  sight 
Foreknows  the  advent  of  the  light, 
Whose  soul  to  morning  radiance  turns 

Ere  night  her  curtain  hath  withdrawn, 
And  in  its  quivering  folds  discerns 

The  mute  monitions  of  the  dawn, 
With  urgent  sense  strained  onward  to  de- 
scry 
Her  distant  tokens,  starts  to  find  her  nigh. 

Not  yet  her  day.     How  long  "  not  yet  ?  " 
There  comes  the  flush  of  violet  ! 
And  heavenward  faces,  all  aflame 

With  sanguine  imminence  of  morn, 
Wait  but  the  sun-kiss  to  proclaim 

The  Day  of  the  Dominion  born. 
Prelusive  baptism  !  —  ere  the  natal  hour 
Named  with   the   name  and  prophecy  of 
power. 

Already  here  to  hearts  intense 

A  spirit  force,  transcending  sense, 

In  heights  unsealed,  in  deeps  unstirred, 

Beneath  the  calm,  above  the  storm, 
She  waits  the  incorporating  word 

To  bid  her  tremble  into  form  : 
Already,  like  divining-rods,  men's  souls 
Bend  down  to  where  the  unseen  river  rolls  : 


For  even  as,  from  sight  concealed, 
By  never  flush  of  dawn  revealed, 
Nor  e'er  illumed  by  golden  noon, 

Nor  sunset-streaked  with  crimson  bar, 
Nor  silver-spanned  by  wake  of  moon, 

Nor  visited  of  any  star, 
Beneath  these  lands  a  river  waits  to  bless 
(So  men  divine)  our  utmost  wilderness,  — 

Rolls  dark,  but  yet  shall  know  our  skies, 
Soon  as.  the  wisdom  of  the  wise 
Conspires  with  nature  to  disclose 

The  blessing  prisoned  and  unseen, 
Till  round  our  lessening  wastes  there  glows 

A  perfect  zone  of  broadening  green,  — 
Till  all  our  land  Australia  Felix  called, 
Become  one  Continent-Isle  of  Emerald  ;  — 

So  flows  beneath  our  good  and  ill 
A  viewless  stream  of  common  will, 
A  gathering  force,  a  present  might, 

That  from  its  silent  depths  of  gloom 
At  Wisdom's  voice  shall  leap  to  light, 

And  hide  our  barren  fields  in  bloom, 
Till,  all  our  sundering  lines  with  love  o'er- 

grown, 

Our    bounds    shall    be    the   girdling   seas 
alone. 


Portion 


FORBY   SUTHERLAND 

A  STORY  OF  BOTANY  BAY 
A.  D.  1770 

A  LANE  of  elms  in  June  ;  —  the  air 
Of  eve  is  cool  and  calm  and  sweet. 

See  !  straying  here  a  youthful  pair, 
With  sad  and  slowly  moving  feet, 

On  hand  in  hand  to  yon  gray  gate, 
O'er  which  the  rosy  apples  swing  ; 

And  there  they  vow  a  mingled  fate, 
One    day   when  George    the   Third 
king. 

The  ring  scarce  clasped  her  finger  fair, 
When,  tossing  in  their  ivied  tower, 

The  distant  bells  made  all  the  air 
Melodious  with  that  golden  hour. 


Then  sank  the  sun  out  o'er  the  sea, 

Sweet  day  of  courtship  fond,  .  .  .  the 
last! 

The  holy  hours  of  twilight  flee 
And  speed  to  join  the  sacred  Past. 

The  house-dove  on  the  moss-grown  thatch 
Is  murmuring  love-songs  to  his  mate, 

As  lovely  Nell  now  lifts  the  latch 
Beneath  the  apples  at  the  gate. 

A  plighted  maid  she  nears  her  home, 
Those  gentle  eyes  with  weeping  red  ; 

Too  soon  her  swain  must  breast  the  foam, 
Alas  1  with  that  last  hour  he  fled. 

And,  ah  !  that  dust-cloud  on  the  road, 
Yon    heartless    coach  -  guard's    blaring 
horn  ; 

But  naught  beside,  that  spoke  or  showed 
Her  sailor  to  poor  Nell  forlorn. 


GEORGE  GORDON   M'CRAE 


623 


She  dreams  ;  and  lo  !  a  ship  that  ploughs 
A  foamy  furrow  through  the  seas, 

As,  plunging  gaily,  from  her  bows 
She  scatters  diamonds  on  the  breeze. 

Swift,  homeward  bound,  with  flags  displayed 
In  pennoned  pomp,  with  drum  and  fife, 

And  all  the  proud  old-world  parade 
That  marks  the  man-o'-war  man's  life. 

She  dreams  and  dreams  ;  her  heart 's  at  sea ; 

Dreams  while  she  wears  the  golden  ring  ; 
Her  spirit  follows  lovingly 

One  humble  servant  of  the  king. 

And  thus  for  years,  since  Hope  survives 
To  cheer  the  maid  and  nerve  the  youth. 

"  Forget-me-not  !  "  —  how  fair  it  thrives 
Where  planted  in  the  soil  of  Truth  ! 

The  skies  are  changed  ;  and  o'er  the  sea, 
Within  a  calm,  sequestered  nook, 

Rests  at  her  anchor  thankfully 

The  tall-sterned  ship  of  gallant  Cook. 

The  emerald  shores  ablaze  with  flowers, 
The  sea  reflects  the  smiling  sky, 

Soft  breathes  the  air  of  perfumed  bowers  — 
How  sad  to  leave  it  all,  and  die  ! 

To  die,  when  all  around  is  fair 

And  steeped  in  beauty  ;  —  ah  !  't  is  hard 
When  ease  and  joy  succeed  to  care, 

And  rest,  to  "  watch  "  and  "  mounted 
guard." 

But  harder  still,  when  one  dear  plan, 
The  end  of  all  his  life  and  cares, 

Hangs  by  a  thread  ;  the  dying  man 
Most  needs  our  sympathy  and  prayers  ! 

'T  was  thus  with  Forby  as  he  lay 
Wan  in  his  narrow  canvas  cot  ; 

Sole  tenant  of  the  lone  "  sick  bay," 

Though  "  mates  "  came  round,  he  heard 
them  not. 

For  days  his  spirit  strove  and  fought, 
But,  ah  !  the  frame  was  all  too  weak. 

Some  phantom  strange  it  seemed  he  sought, 
And  vainly  tried  to  rise  and  speak. 


At  last  he  smiled  and  brightened  up, 
The  noonday  bugle  went  ;  and  he 

Drained  ('t  was  his  last)  the  cooling  cup 
A  messmate  offered  helpfully. 

His  tongue  was  loosed  —  "I  hear  the  horn  ! 

Ah,  Nell  !  my  number  's  flying.     See  !  — 
The    horses     too  ;  —  they  've     had    their 
corn. 

Alas,  dear  love  !  .  .  .  I  part  from  thee  !  " 

He  waved  his  wasted  hand,  and  cried, 
"  Sweet  Nell !      Dear  maid  !      My  own 

true  Nell ! 
The  coach  won't  wait  for  me  ! "  .  .  .  and 

died  — 
And  this  was  Forby's  strange  farewell. 

Next  morn  the  barge,  with  muffled  oars, 
Pulls  slowly  forth,  and  leaves  the  slip 

With  flags  half-mast,  and  gains  the  shores, 
While  silence  seals  each  comrade's  lip. 

They  bury  him  beneath  a  tree, 

His  treasure  in  his  bosom  hid. 
What  was  that  treasure  ?     Go  and  see  ! 

Long  since  it  burst  his  coffin-lid  ! 

Nell  gave  to  Forby,  once  in  play, 
Some  hips  of  roses,  with  the  seeds 

Of  hedgerow  plants,  and  flowerets  gay 
(In  England  such  might  count  for  weeds). 

"Take    these,"    cries    smiling    Nell,    "to 
sow 

In  foreign  lands  ;  and  when  folk  see 
The  English  roses  bloom  and  grow, 

Some  one  may  bless  an  unknown  me." 

The  turf  lies  green  on  Forby's  bed, 

A    hundred    years     have    passed,    and 
more, 

But  twining  over  Forby's  head 

Are  Nell's  sweet  roses  on  that  shore. 

The  violet  and  the  eglantine, 

With  sweet-breathed  cowslips,  deck  the 

spot, 

And  nestling  'mid  them  in  the  shine, 
The     meek,     blue-eyed     "Forget-me- 
not  ! " 


624 


AUSTRALASIA 


Clarence  itcn&afl 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN 


To  thee,  O  father  of  the  stately  peaks, 
Above  me  in  the  loftier  light  —  to  thee, 
Imperial  brother  of  those  awful  hills, 
Whose  feet  are  set  in  splendid  spheres  of 

flame, 
Whose  heads  are  where  the  gods  are,  and 

whose  sides 
Of  strength  are  belted  round  with  all  the 

zones 

Of  all  the  world,  I  dedicate  these  songs. 
And  if,  within  the  compass  of  this  book, 
There  lives  and  glows  one  verse  in  which 

there  beats 
The   pulse  of  wind   and  torrent  —  if   one 

line 

Is  here  that  like  a  running  water  sounds, 
And  seems  an  echo  from  the  lands  of  leaf, 
Be  sure  that  line  is  thine.     Here,  in  this 

home, 
Away  from  men  and  books   and  all   the 

schools, 

I  take  thee  for  my  Teacher.     In  thy  voice 
Of  deathless  majesty,  I,  kneeling,  hear 
God's   grand   authentic   gospel  !     Year  by 

year, 

The  great  sublime  cantata  of  thy  storm 
Strikes  through  my  spirit  —  fills  it  with  a 

life 

Of  startling  beauty  !     Thou  my  Bible  art 
With  holy  leaves  of  rock,  and  flower,  and 

tree, 
And  moss,  and  shining  runnel.     From  each 

page 

That  helps  to  make  thy  awful  volume,  I 
Have  learned  a  noble  lesson.     In  the  psalm 
Of  thy  grave  winds,  and  in  the  liturgy 
Of  singing  waters,  lo  !  my  soul  has  heard 
The   higher  worship  ;  and   from   thee,  in- 

deed, 

The  broad  foundations  of  a  finer  hope 
Were  gathered  in  ;   and  thou  hast  lifted 

up  • 

The  blind  horizon  for  a  larger  faith. 
Moreover,  walking  in  exalted  woods 
Of  naked  glory,  in  the  green  and  gold 
Of  forest  sunshine,  I  have  paused  like  one 
With  all  the  life  transfigured  :  and  a  flood 
Of  life  ineffable  has  made  me  feel 
As    felt   the   grand  old  prophets   caught 

away 


By  flames  of  inspiration  ;  but  the  words 
Sufficient  for  the  story  of  my  dream 
Are  far  too  splendid  for  poor  human  lips  ! 
But  thou,  to  whom  I  turn  with  reverent 
eyes  — 

0  stately  Father,  whose  majestic  face 
Shines   far   above  the   zone   of   wind  and 

cloud, 

Where  high  dominion  of  the  morning  is  — 
Thou  hast  the  Songs  complete  of  which  my 

songs 

Are  pallid  adumbrations  !     Certain  Sounds 
Of  strong  authentic  sorrow  in  this  book 
May  have  the   sob    of  upland  torrents  — 

these, 
And    only    these,    may    touch    the    great 

World's  heart  ; 

For  lo  !  they  are  the  issues  of  that  grief 
Which  makes  a  man  more  human,  and  his 

life 

More  like  that  frank  exalted  life  of  thine. 
But  in  these  pages  there  are  other  tones 
In    which    thy    large,    superior    voice    is 

not  — 
Through  which  no  beauty  that  resembles 

thine 
Has    ever  shown.     These  are  the  broken 

words 
Of  blind  occasions,  when  the  World  has 

come 
Between  me  and  my  dream.     No  song  is 

here 
Of  mighty  compass  ;  for  my  singing  robes 

1  've    worn   in   stolen   moments.      All   my 

days 

Have  been  the  days  of  a  laborious  life, 
And  ever  on  my  struggling  soul  has  burned 
The   fierce   heat  of  this    hurried   sphere. 

But  thou, 

To  whose  fair  majesty  I  dedicate 
My  book  of  rhymes  —  thou  hast  the  per- 
fect rest 
Which  makes  the  heaven  of  the  highest 

gods  ! 

To  thee  the  noises  of  this  violent  time 
Are  far,  faint  whispers,  and,  from  age  to 

age, 

Within  the  world  and  yet  apart  from  it, 
Thou  standest !  Round  thy  lordly  capes  the 

sea 

Rolls  on  with  a  superb  indifference 
Forever  ;  in  thy  deep,  green,  gracious  glens 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL 


625 


The  silver  fountains  sing  forever.     Far 
Above  dim  ghosts  of  waters  in  the  caves, 
The  royal  robe  of  morning  on  thy  head 
Abides  forever  !     Evermore  the  wind 
Is  thy  august  companion  ;  and  thy  peers 
Are  cloud,  and  thunder,  and  the  face  sublime 
Of  blue  mid-heaven  !     On  thy  awful  brow 
Is  Deity  ;  and  in  that  voice  of  thine 
There  is  the  great  imperial  utterance 
Of  God  forever  ;  and  thy  feet  are  set 
Where  evermore,  through  all  the  days  and 

years, 
There  rolls  the  grand  hymn  of  the  deathless 


COOGEE 

SING  the  song  of  wave-worn  Coogee,  Coo- 
gee  in  the  distance  white, 

With  its  jags  and  points  disrupted,  gaps 
and  fractures  fringed  with  light  ; 

Haunt  of  gledes,  and  restless  plovers  of  the 
melancholy  wail, 

Ever  lending  deeper  pathos  to  the  mel- 
ancholy gale. 

There,  my  brothers,  down  the  fissures, 
chasms  deep  and  wan  and  wild, 

Grows  the  sea-bloom,  one  that  blushes  like 
a  shrinking,  fair,  blind  child  ; 

And  amongst  the  oozing  forelands  many  a 
glad  green  rock-vine  runs, 

Getting  ease  on  earthy  ledges,  sheltered 
from  December  suns. 

Often,  when  a  gusty  morning,  rising  cold 

and  gray  and  strange, 
Lifts  its  face   from  watery   spaces,  vistas 

full  with  cloudy  change, 
Bearing  up  a  gloomy  burden  which  anon 

begins  to  wane, 

Fading  in  the  sudden  shadow  of  a  dark  de- 
termined rain, 
Do  I  seek  an  eastern  window,  so  to  watch 

the  breakers  beat 
Round  the  steadfast  crags  of  Coogee,  dim 

with  drifts  of  driving  sleet : 
Hearing  hollow  mournful  noises  sweeping 

down  a  solemn  shore, 
While  the  grim  sea-caves  are  tideless,  and 

the  storm  strives  at  their  core. 

Often  when  the  floating  vapors  fill  the  silent 

autumn  leas, 
Dreaming    memories   fall   like    moonlight 

over  silent  sleeping  seas, 


Youth   and   I   and   Love   together !   other 

times  and  other  themes 
Come  to  me  unsung,  unwept  for,  through 

the  faded  evening  gleams. 
Come  to  me  and  touch  me  mutely  —  I  that 

looked  and  longed  so  well, 
Shall  I  look  and  yet  forget  them  ?  —  who 

may  know  or  who  foretell  ? 
Though  the  southern  wind  roams,  shadowed 

with  its  immemorial  grief, 
Where  the  frosty  wings  of  Winter  leave 

their  whiteness  on  the  leaf. 

Friend  of  mine  beyond  the  waters,  here 

and  there  these  perished  days 
Haunt  me  with  their  sweet  dead  faces  and 

their  old  divided  ways. 
You  that  helped  and  you  that  loved  me, 

take  this  song,  and  when  you  read 
Let  the  lost  things  come  about  you,  set 

your  thoughts,  and  hear  and  heed. 
Time  has  laid  his  burden  on  us  —  we  who 

wear  our  manhood  now, 
We  would  be  the  boys  we  have  been,  free 

of  heart  and  bright  of  brow, 
Be  the  boys  for   just   an   hour,    with   the 

splendor  and  the  speech 
Of  thy  lights  and  thunders,  Coogee,  flying 

up  thy  gleaming  beach. 

Heart's   desire  and  heart's  division  !  who 

would  come  and  say  to  me, 
With  the  eyes  of  far-off  friendship, ."  You 

are  as  you  used  to  be  ?  " 
Something  glad  and  good  has  left  me  here 

with  sickening  discontent, 
Tired  of  looking,  neither  knowing  what  it 

was  or  where  it  went. 
So  it  is  this  sight  of  Coogee,  shining  in  the 

morning  dew, 
Sets  me  stumbling  through  dim  summers 

once  on  fire  with  youth  and  you — 
Summers  pale  as  southern  evenings  when 

the  year  has  lost  its  power 
And  the  wasted  face  of  April  weeps  above 

the  withered  flower. 

Not  that  seasons  bring  no  solace,  not  that 

time  lacks  light  and  rest, 
But  the  old  things  were  the  dearest,  and 

the  old  loves  seem  the  best. 
We  that  start  at  songs  familiar,  we  that 

tremble  at  a  tone 
Floating  down  the  ways  of  music,  like  a 

sigh  of  sweetness  flown, 


6z6 


AUSTRALASIA 


We  can  never  feel  the  freshness,  never 
find  again  the  mood 

Left  among  fair-featured  places,  bright- 
ened of  our  brotherhood. 

This  and  this  we  have  to  think  of  when  the 
night  is  over  all, 

When  the  woods  begin  to  perish,  and  the 
rains  begin  to  fall. 

SEPTEMBER    IN   AUSTRALIA 

GRAY  Winter  hath  gone,  like  a  wearisome 

guest, 

And,  behold,  for  repayment, 
September  comes  in  with  the  wind  of  the 

West 

And  the  Spring  in  her  raiment  I 
The  ways  of  the  frost  have  been  filled  of 

the  flowers, 

While  the  forest  discovers 
Wild  wings,  with  the  halo  of  hyaline  hours, 
And  a  music  of  lovers. 

September,  the  maid  with  the  swift  silver 

feet  ! 

She  glides,  and  she  graces 
The  valleys  of  coolness,  the  slopes  of  the 

heat, 

With  her  blossomy  traces  ; 
Sweet  month,  with  a  mouth  that  is  made 

of  a  rose, 

She  lightens  and  lingers 
In  spots   where  the  harp  of  the  evening 

glows, 
Attuned  by  her  fingers. 

The  stream  from  its  home  in  the  hollow 

hill  slips 

In  a  darling  old  fashion  ; 
And  the  day  goeth  down  with  a  song  ou  its 

lips 

Whose  key-note  is  passion  ; 
Far  out  in  the  fierce,  bitter  front  of  the  sea 

I  stand,  and  remember 
Dead  things  that  were  brothers  and  sisters 

of  thee, 
Resplendent  September. 

The  West,  when  it  blows  at  the  fall  of  the 
noon 

And  beats  on  the  beaches, 
So  filled  with  a  tender  and  tremulous  tune 

That  touches  and  teaches  ; 


The  stories   of  Youth,  of   the   burden  of 

Time, 

And  the  death  of  Devotion, 
Come  back  with  the  wind,  and  are  themes 

of  the  rhyme 
In  the  waves  of  the  ocean. 

We,  having  a  secret  to  others  unknown, 

In  the  cool  mountain-mosses, 
May  whisper  together,  September,  alone 

Of  our  loves  and  our  losses. 
One  word  for  her  beauty,  and  one  for  the 
place 

She  gave  to  the  hours  ; 
And  then  we  may  kiss  her,  and  suffer  her 
face 

To  sleep  with  the  flowers. 

High  places  that  knew  of  the  gold  and  the 

white 

On  the  forehead  of  Morning 
Now  darken  and  quake,  and  the  steps  of 

the  Night 

Are  heavy  with  warning  ! 
Her  voice  in  the  distance  is  lofty  and  loud 

Through  its  echoing  gorges  ; 
She  hath  hidden  her  eyes  in  a  mantle  of 

cloud, 
And  her  feet  in  the  surges  ! 

On  the  tops  of  the  hills,  on  the  turreted 

cones  — 

Chief  temples  of  thunder — 
The  gale,  like  a  ghost,  in  the  middle  watch 

moans, 

Gliding  over  and  under. 
The  sea,  flying  white  through  the  rack  and 

the  rain, 

Leapeth  wild  at  the  forelands  ; 
And  the  plover,  whose  cry  is  like  passion 

with  pain, 
Complains  in  the  moorlands. 

Oh,   season  of  changes  —  of  shadow  and 

shine  — 

September  the  splendid ! 
My  song    hath  no  music  to  mingle  with 

thine, 

And  its  burden  is  ended  ; 
But  thou,  being  born  of  the  winds  and  the 

sun, 

By  mountain,  by  river, 
May  lighten  and  listen,  and  loiter  and  run, 
With  thy  voices  forever. 


HENRY  CLARENCE  KENDALL 


627 


THE   LAST   OF   HIS   TRIBE 

HE  crouches,  and  buries  his  face  on  hia 

knees, 

And  hides  in  the  dark  of  his  hair  ; 
For  he  cannot  look  up  to  the  storm-smitten 

trees, 

Or  think  of  the  loneliness  there  — 
Of  the  loss  and  the  loneliness  there. 

The  wallaroos  grope  through  the  tufts  of 

the  grass, 

And  turn  to  their  covers  for  fear  ; 
But  he   sits  in  the  ashes  and  lets  them 

pass 
Where  the  boomerangs   sleep  with  the 

spear  — 

With   the    nullah,    the    sling,  and    the 
spear. 

Uloola,  behold   him  !     The   thunder   that 

breaks 

On  the  top  of  the  rocks  with  the  rain, 
And  the  wind  which  drives  up  with  the  salt 

of  the  lakes, 

Have  made  him  a  hunter  again  — 
'  A  hunter  and  fisher  again. 

For  his  eyes  have  been  full  with  a  smoul- 
dering thought ; 

But  he  dreams  of  the  hunts  of  yore, 
And  of  foes  that  he  sought,  and  of  fights 

that  he  fought 

With  those  who  will  battle  no  more  — 
Who  will  go  to  the  battle  no  more. 

It  is  well  that  the  water  which  tumbles  and 

fills, 

Goes  moaning  and  moaning  along  ; 
For  an  echo  rolls  out  from  the  sides  of  the 

hills, 

And  he  starts  at  a  wonderful  song  — 
At  the  sounds  of  a  wonderful  song. 

And  he  sees  through  the  rents  of  the  scat- 
tering fogs, 

The  corroboree  warlike  and  grim, 
And  the  lubra  who  sat  by  the  fire  on  the 

logs, 

To  watch,  like  a  mourner,  for  him  — 
Like  a  mother  and  mourner  for  him. 

Will  he  go  in  his  sleep  from  these  desolate 

lands, 
Like  a  chief,  to  the  rest  of  his  raee, 


With  the  honey-voiced  woman  who  beck- 
ons and  stands, 

And  gleams  like  a  dream  in  his  face  — 
Like  a  marvellous  dream  in  his  face  ? 


THE  VOICE  IN  THE  WILD  OAK 

TWELVE  years  ago,  when  I  could  face 

High  heaven's  dome  with  different  eyes, 
In  days  full-flowered  with  hours  of  grace, 

And  nights  not  sad  with  sighs, 
I  wrote  a  song  in  which  I  strove 

To  shadow  forth  thy  strain  of  woe, 
Dark  widowed  sister  of  the  grove  — 

Twelve  wasted  years  ago. 

But  youth  was  then  too  young  to  find 

Those  high  authentic  syllables 
Whose  voice  is  like  the  wintering  wind 

By  sunless  mountain  fells  ; 
Nor  had  I  sinned  and  suffered  then 

To  that  superlative  degree 
That  I  would  rather  seek,  than  men, 

Wild  fellowship  with  thee. 

But  he  who  hears  this  autumn  day 

Thy  more  than  deep  autumnal  rhyme, 
Is  one  whose  hair  was  shot  with  gray 

By  grief  instead  of  time. 
He  has  no  need,  like  many  a  bard, 

To  sing  imaginary  pain, 
Because  he  bears,  and  finds  it  hard, 

The  punishment  of  Cain. 

No  more  he  sees  the  affluence 

Which  makes  the  heart  of  Nature  glad  ; 
For  he  has  lost  the  fine  first  sense 

Of  beauty  that  he  had. 
The  old  delight  God's  happy  breeze 

Was  wont  to  give,  to  grief  has  grown  ; 
And  therefore,  Niobe  of  trees, 

His  song  is  like  thine  own. 

But  I,  who  am  that  perished  soul, 

Have  wasted  so  these  powers  of  mine, 
That  I  can  never  write  that  whole, 

Pure,  perfect  speech  of  thine. 
Some  lord  of  words  august,  supreme, 

The  grave,  grand  melody  demands  ; 
The  dark  translation  of  thy  theme 

I  leave  to  other  hands. 

Yet  here,  where  plovers  nightly  call 
Across  dim  melancholy  leas  — 


628 


AUSTRALASIA 


Where  conies  by  whistling  fen  and  fall 

The  moan  of  far-off  seas  — 
A  gray  old  Fancy  often  sits 

Beneath  thy  shade  with  tired  wings, 
And  fills  thy  strong,  strange  rhyme  by  fits 

With  awful  utterings. 

Then  times  there  are  when  all  the  words 

Are  like  the  sentences  of  one 
Shut  in  by  fate  from  wind  and  birds 

And  light  of  stars  and  sun  ! 
No  dazzling  dryad,  but  a  dark 

Dream-haunted  spirit,  doomed  to  be 
Imprisoned,  cramped  in  bands  of  bark, 

For  all  eternity. 

Yea,  like  the  speech  of  one  aghast 

At  Immortality  in  chains, 
What  time  the  lordly  storm  rides  past 

With  flames  and  arrowy  rains  : 
Some  wan  Tithonus  of  the  wood, 

White  with  immeasurable  years  — 
An  awful  ghost,  in  solitude 

With  moaning  moors  and  meres  ! 

And  when  high  thunder  smites  the  hill 
And  hunts  the  wild  dog  to  his  den, 

Thy  cries,  like  maledictions,  shrill 
And  shriek  from  glen  to  glen, 

As  if  a  frightful  memory  whipped 


Thy  soul  for  some  infernal  crime 
That  left  it  blasted,  blind,  and  stripped  — • 
A  dread  to  Death  and  Time  ! 

But  when  the  fair-haired  August  dies, 

And  flowers  wax  strong  and  beautiful, 
Thy  songs  are  stately  harmonies 

By  wood-lights  green  and  cool, 
Most  like  the  voice  of  one  who  shows 

Through  sufferings  fierce,  in  fine  relief, 
A  noble  patience  and  repose  — 

A  dignity  in  grief. 

But,  ah  !  conceptions  fade  away, 

And  still  the  life  that  lives  in  thee, 
The  soul  of  thy  majestic  lay, 

Remains  a  mystery  ! 
And  he  must  speak  the  speech  divine, 

The  language  of  the  high-throned  lords, 
Who  'd  give  that  grand  old  theme  of  thine 

Its  sense  in  faultless  words. 

By  hollow  lands  and  sea-tracts  harsh, 

With  ruin  of  the  fourfold  gale, 
Where  sighs  the  sedge  and  sobs  the  marsh, 

Still  wail  thy  lonely  wail  ; 
And,  year  by  year,  one  step  will  break 

The  sleep  of  far  hill-folded  streams, 
And  seek,  if  only  for  thy  sake, 

Thy  home  of  many  dreams. 


THE    SONG    OF   THE    WILD 
STORM-WAVES 

(AFTER  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  "TARARUA") 

OH,  ye  wild  waves,  shoreward  dashing, 

What  is  your  tale  to-day  ? 
O'er  the  rocks  your  white  foam  splashing, 

While  the  moaning  wind  your  spray 

Whirls  heavenwards  away 

In  the  mist  ? 
Have  ye  heard  the  timbers  crashing 

Of  the  good  ship  out  at  sea  ? 
Seen  the  masts  the  dank  ropes  lashing, 

While  the  sailors  bend  the  knee, 

And  vainly  call  on  Heaven 
To  assist  ? 

9h,  ay  !  we  've  seen  and  heard  — 
Oh,  ay  !  we  've  heard  and  seen 


More  than  ever  you  could  gather  — 
More  than  ever  you  could  glean 

From  our  tale. 

We  have  seen,  and  heard,  and  laughed, 
As  we  tossed  the  shattered  craft, 
While  those  on  board,  aghast, 
Every  moment  thought  their  last, 
In  the  gale. 

We  tossed  them  like  a  plaything, 

And  rent  their  riven  sail  ; 
And  we  laughed  our  loud  Ha  !  ha  I 

With  the  demons  of  the  gale 

In  their  ears. 

We  have  laughed,  and  heard,  and  seen, 
In  the  lightning's  lurid  sheen, 

And  the  growling  thunder's  blast  ; 

And  we  drowned  them  all  at  last 
For  their  fears. 


A.  C.  SMITH 


629 


There  were  mothers  there  on  board 
With  their  little  ones  in  arms  ; 

There  were  maidens  there  on  board 
More  lovely  in  their  charms 
Than  the  day  ; 

And  again  we  heard,  and  laughed 

As  we  dashed  across  the  craft  ; 

While  our  master  shrieked  and  roared, 
As  we  swept  them  overboard, 
And  away. 

And  they  battled  all  in  vain, 

With  their  puny  human  strength. 

In  our  grasp  they  were  as  nothing  ; 
Down,  down,  they  sank  at  length 
In  the  sea  ; 

And  still  again  we  screamed, 

As  the  lurid  flashes  gleamed, 
And  o'er  their  heads  we  swept, 
And  for  joy  we  danced  and  leapt 
In  our  glee. 


This,  this,  now  is  the  tale 

We  have  to  tell  to-day, 
And  now  to  you  we  've  sung  it 

In  our  merry,  mocking  way. 

Do  you  hear  ? 

How  our  havoc  we  have  wrought, 
And  to  destruction  brought 

The  treasures  of  the  Earth, 

Held  by  man  in  price,  and  worth, 
Very  dear  ? 

Oh  !  ye  cruel  waves  up-dashing, 

Why  rejoice  you  so  to-day  ? 
As  shoreward  ye  come  crashing 

From  your  cruel,  cruel  play  ; 

Why  fling  ye  up  your  spray 

On  the  shore  ? 
The  sand  your  salt  spume  splashing, 

As  ye  frolic  in  your  glee  ; 
As  the  iron  rocks  ye  're  lashing, 

Ye  scourges  of  the  sea,  — 

Will  ye  never  then  be  glutted 

Any  more  ? 


.  C. 


THE  WAIF 

HE  went  into  the  bush,  and  passed 
Out  of  the  sight  of  living  men, 

None  knows  the  nook  that  held  him  last, 
None  ever  saw  his  face  again. 

It  may  be,  in  the  wildering  wood 

He  wandered,  weary,  spent  of  breath, 

Till  the  all-mastering  solitude 

Sank  to  the  deeper  hush  of  death. 

Perchance  he  crawled  where  the  low  bush, 
More  verdant,  whispered   streams  were 
nigh, 

Hopeful,  but  desperate,  made  a  rush, 
And  found,  O  God  !  the  bed  was  dry  ! 

He  was  a  waif,  and  friends  had  none  ; 

Who  knows  but  in  some  distant  land 
A  mother  mourns  her  errant  son, 

A  sister  longs  to  clasp  his  hand  ? 


He  was  a  waif,  but  with  him  died 
A  world  of  yearnings  deep  within  — 

Yearning  to  loftiest  things  allied, 
But  wrecked  by  cruel  fate,  or  sin. 

None  heard  the  lone  one's  dying  prayer 
Save  Infinite  Pity  bending  o'er, 

Who,  haply,  bore  him  quietly  where 
They    hunger     and     they    thirst    no 


O  ye  vast  woods  !  what  fond  life-dreams 
Ye  close  !  what  broken  lives  ye  hide  ! 

Darkly  absorbed,  like  hopeful  streams, 
That  in  dry  desert  lands  subside. 

Stranger  the  tales  ye  could  unfold 
Than  wild  romancer  ever  penned, 

Remaining  buried  in  the  mould 

Till   time   shall   cease,  and    mystery 
end  ! 


630 


AUSTRALASIA 


BENEATH  THE  WATTLE 
BOUGHS 

THE  wattles  were  sweet  with  September's 

rain, 
We  drank  in  their  breath  and  the  breath 

of  the  spring  : 
"  Our  pulses  are  strong  with  the  tide  of 

life," 
I  said,  "  and  one  year  is  so  swift  a  thing  !  " 

The    land    all    around    was    yellow   with 

bloom, 
The  birds  in  the  branches  sang  joyous  and 

shrill, 
The  blue  range  rose  'gainst  the  blue  of  the 

sky, 
Yet  she  sighed, "  But  death  may  be  stronger 

still  !  " 


Then  I  reached  and  gathered  a  blossomy 

bough, 

Aiid  divided  its  clustering  sprays  in  twain, 
"  As  a  token  for  each  "  (I  closed  one  in  her 

hand) 
"Till  we   come   to  the   end  of  the   year 

again ! " 

Then  the  years  sped  on,  strung  high  with 

life; 
And  laughter  and  gold  were  the  gifts  they 

gave, 
Till  I  chanced  one  day  on  some  pale  dead 

flowers, 
And  spake,  shaking  and  white,  "  One  more 

gift  I  crave." 

"  Nay,"  a  shadow  voice  in  the  air  replied, 
"  'Neath  the  blossoming  wattles  you  '11  find 

a  grave ! " 


THE  DIGGER'S    GRAVE 

HE  sought  Australia's  far-famed  isle, 
Hoping  that  Fortune  on  his  lot  would  smile, 
In  search  for  gold.     When  one  short  year 

had  flown, 

He  wrote  the  welcome  tidings  to  his  own 
Betrothed ;    told    how   months   of    toiling 

vaiu 
Made    ten-fold    sweeter    to    him    sudden 

gain; 
With  sanguine  words,  traced  with   love's 

eager  hand, 
He  bade  her  join  him  in  this  bright  south 

land. 

Oft  as  he  sat,  his  long  day's  labor  o'er, 
In  his  bush  hut,  he  dreamed  of  home  once 

more  ; 
His  thoughts  to  the  old  country  home  in 

Kent 
Returned.   'T  was  Christmas-day,  and  they 

two  went 
O'er  frost  and  snow  ;  the  Christmas  anthem 

rang 
Through  the  old  church,  which  echoed  as 

they  sang. 


That  day  had  Philip  courage  gained  to  tell 
His  tale  of  love  to  pretty  Christabel  ; 
And  she,  on  her  part,  with  ingenuous  grace, 
Endorsed  the  tell-tale  of  her  blushing  face. 
Dream  on,  true  lover  !  never,  never  thou 
Shalt  press  the  kiss  of  welcome  on  her  brow. 
E'en  now  a  comrade,  eager  for  thy  gold, 
Above  thy  fond  true  heart  the  knife  doth 

hold  — 
One  stroke,  the  weapon  's  plunged  into  his 

breast  ; 

So  sure  the  aim  that,  like  a  child  at  rest, 
The  murdered  digger  lies,  —  a  happy  smile 
Parts  the  full  manly  bearded  lips  the  while. 

Next  day  they  found  him.    In  his  death- 
cold  hand, 

He  held  his  last  home  letter,  lately  scanned 
With  love-lit  eyes  ;  and  next  his  heart  they 

found 

A  woman's  kerchief  which,  when  they  un- 
wound, 

Disclosed  a  lock  of  silken  auburn  hair 
And  portrait  of  a  girl's  face,  fresh  and  fair, 
Dyed  with   the   life-blood  of   his   faithful 
heart. 


ARTHUR  PATCHETT  MARTIN 


To  more  thaii  one  eye,  tears  unbidden  start ; 
With  reverent   hands,  and   rough,   uncon- 
scious grace, 
They  laid  him  in  his  lonely  resting-place. 


The  bright-hued  birds  true  nature's  re- 
quiem gave, 

And  wattle-bloom  bestrews  the  digger's 
grave. 


2trtf)uc  gatcljctt 


LOVE   AND  WAR 

THE  Chancellor  mused  as  he  nibbled  his 

pen 

(Sure  no  Minister  ever  looked  wiser), 
And   said,  "  I  can   summon  a   million   of 

men 
To  fight  for  their  country  and  Kaiser  ; 

"  While  that  shallow  charlatan  ruling  o'er 

France, 

Who  deems  himself  deeper  than  Merlin, 
Thinks  he  and  his  soldiers   have  only  to 

dance 
To  the  tune  of  the  Can-can  to  Berlin. 

"  But  as  soon  as  he  gets  to  the  bank  of  the 

Rhine, 
He  '11    be   met    by   the    great   German 

army." 
Then  the  Chancellor  laughed,  and  he  said, 

"  I  will  dine, 
For  I  see  nothing  much  to  alarm  me." 

Yet  still  as  he  went  out  he  paused  by  the 

door 

(For  his  mind  was  in  truth  heavy  laden), 
And  he  saw  a  stout  fellow,  equipped  for 

the  war, 
Embracing  a  fair-haired  young  maiden. 

"  Ho  !    ho  !  "    said   the   Chancellor,    "  this 

will  not  do, 

For  Mars  to  be  toying  with  Venus, 
When   these    Frenchmen   are   coming  —  a 

rascally  crew  !  — 
And  the  Rhine  only  flowing  between  us." 

So  the  wary  old  fox,  just  in  order  to  hear, 

Strode  one  or  two  huge  paces  nearer  ; 
And  he  heard  the  youth  say,  "  More  than 

life  art  thou  dear  ; 

But,    O     loved    one,   the    Fatherland's 
dearer." 


Then  the  maid  dried  her  tears  and  looked 

up  in  his  eyes, 
And    she    said,    "  Thou    of    loving   art 

worthy  : 
When  all  are  in  danger  no  brave  man  e'er 

flies, 

And  thy  love  should  spur  on  —  not  deter 
thee." 

The   Chancellor  took    a   cigar,   which  he 

lit, 
And   he   muttered,   "  Here's   naught   to 

alarm  me  ; 
By  Heaven  !  I  swear  they  are  both  of  them 

fit 
To  march  with  the  great  German  army." 


THE  CYNIC  OF  THE  WOODS1 

I  COME  from  busy  haunts  of  men, 

With  nature  to  commune, 
Which  you,  it  seems,  observe,  and  then 

Laugh  out,  like  some  buffoon. 

You  cease,  and  through  the  forest  drear 

I  pace,  with  sense  of  awe  ; 
When  once  again  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

I  look  aloft  to  yonder  place, 

Where  placidly  you  sit, 
And  tell  you  to  your  very  face, 

I  do  not  like  your  wit. 

I  'm  in  no  mood  for  blatant  jest, 

I  hate  your  mocking  song, 
My  weary  soul  demands  the  rest 

Denied  to  it  so  long. 

Besides,  there  passes  through  my  brain 

The  poet's  love  of  fame  — 
Why  should  not  an  Australian  strain 

Immortalize  my  name  ? 


The  giant  kingfisher,  or  "  laughing  jackass." 


632 


AUSTRALASIA 


And  so  I  pace  the  forest  drear, 

Filled  with  a  sense  of  awe, 
When  louder  still  upon  my  ear 

Breaks  in  your  harsh  guffaw. 

Yet  truly,  Jackass,  it  may  be, 

My  words  are  all  unjust  : 
You  laugh  at  what  you  hear  and  see, 

And  laugh  because  you  must. 

You  Ve  seen  Man  civilized  and  rude, 

Of  varying  race  and  creed, 
The  black-skinned  savage  almost  nudys, 

The  Englishman  in  tweed. 

And  here  the  lubra  oft  has  strayed, 

To  rest  beneath  the  boughs, 
Where   now,  perchance,  some   fair-haired 
maid 

May  hear  her  lover's  vows  ; 

While  you  from  yonder  lofty  height 
Have  studied  human  ways, 


And,  with  a  satirist's  delight, 
Dissected  hidden  traits. 

Laugh  on,  laugh  on  !     Your  rapturous 
shout 

Again  on  me  intrudes  ; 
But  I  have  found  your  secret  out, 

O  cynic  of  the  woods  ! 

Well !  I  confess,  grim  mocking  elf, 

Howe'er  I  rhapsodize, 
That  I  am  more  in  love  with  self 

Than  with  the  earth  or  skies. 

So  I  will  lay  the  epic  by, 

That  I  had  just  begun  : 
Why  do  I  babble  ?     Let  me  lie 

And  bask  here  in  the  sun. 

And  let  me  own,  were  I  endowed 
With  your  fine  humorous  sense, 

I,  too,  should  laugh  —  ay,  quite  as  loud, 
At  all  Man's  vain  pretence. 


AN  AUSTRALIAN  GIRL 

SHE  has  a  beauty  of  her  own, 
A  beauty  of  a  paler  tone 

Than  English  belles. 
The  Southern  sun  and  Southern  air 
Have  kissed  her  cheeks  until  they  wear 
The  dainty  tints  that  oft  appear 

On  rosy  shells. 

Her  frank,  clear  eyes  bespeak  a  mind 
Old-world  traditions  fail  to  bind. 
She  is  not  shy 


Or  bolS,  but  simply  self-possessed  ; 
Her  independence  adds  a  zest 
Unto  her  speech,  her  piquant  jest, 
Her  quaint  reply. 

O'er  classic  volumes  she  will  pore 
With  joy  ;  and  some  scholastic  lore 

Will  often  gain. 

In  sports  she  bears  away  the  bell, 
Nor  under  music's  siren  spell 
To  dance  divinely,  flirt  as  well, 

Does  she  disdain. 


Eleanor 


A  NEW  ZEALAND   REGRET 

COME  !  in  this  cool  retreat, 
Under  the  chestnut's  shade, 
Far  from  all  noise  and  heat  — 
Distant  and  faint  the  beat 


Of  the  great  city  —  we  two  have  strayed 
Come,  linnet,  sing  to  me, 
Sing  my  soul  across  the  sea. 

Sing  !  let  each  rippling  note 
Carry  my  soul  away  ; 


633 


Sweeter  than  wild  bird's  throat, 
Backward  my  memory  float, 
On  music's  wing  my  heart  convey, 
Where  southern  stars  in  beauty  glow, 
And  Egmont  lifts  her  brow  of  snow. 

Again  I  '11  see  our  long  lost  home 
Upon  Wairoa's  grassy  plain  ; 
Among  the  fern  the  cattle  roam  ; 
With  idle  rein  upon  his  arm  o'erthrown 
The  shepherd  guards  his  flocks  again, 
And  his  shrill  whistle  with  his  dog's  bark 

blends, 
As  down  the  hill  the  woolly  stream  descends. 

Or  now,  the  early  "  muster  "  over, 
With  Jim  and  Tom  I  'm  slowly  riding 
Through    the    home-paddock   white    with 

clover, 

And  followed  close  by  Nip  and  Rover, 
Their  warm  allegiance  now  dividing, 
For  Tom's  fair  sisters  here  we  meet, 
And  welcoming  smiles  their  weary  swains 

do  greet. 

Here  in  the  world's  great  heart  abiding, 

We  two  have  left  the  happy  isle  ; 

Australian  grass  Tom's  face  is  hiding, 

Jim  in  the  spirit-land  is  riding. 

From  weary  thoughts  my  heart  beguile  ! 

Sing,  linnet,  sing  to  me, 

Sing  my  soul  across  the  sea. 


Yes  !  now  my  wings  I  feel, 
Once  more  the  isle  I  see  ; 
Let  sleep  my  eyelids  seal 
While  to  those  scenes  I  steal, 
Borne  thus  on  melody  ; 
So  sweetly  you  have  sung  to  me, 
Sung  my  soul  across  the  sea. 

ADIEU 

O  SHEPHERDS  !  take  my  crook  from  me, 
For  I  no  longer  here  can  stay. 
There  comes  a  whisper  from  the  sea, 
Calling  my  soul  from  you  away  ; 
Friends  of  my  heart !  long  tried  and  true, 
O  let  me  leave  my  crook  with  you. 

An  idle  shepherd  have  I  lain, 

Dreaming   while   sheep-dogs   barked   in 
vain, 

Or  chasing  rhymes  to  wreathe  the  strain 
Which  from  sweet  musing  grew. 

Above  the  stars  I  drift  in  thought, 
Melodious  murmurings  in  my  ears  ; 
As  though  the  upborne  spirit  caught 
Soft  echoes  from  the  higher  spheres. 
But  see  !  far  up  the  azure  height, 
Bright  Sirius  hails  me  with  his  light  ! 
My  soul,  impatient  of  delay, 
Rides  on  the  wings  of  thought  away, 
My  heart  alone  with  you  can  stay  : 
My  Shepherds  dear  —  Good  night ! 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


CANADIAN    HUNTER'S   SONG 

THE  Northern  Lights  are  flashing 

On  the  rapids'  restless  flow, 
But  o  'er  the  wild  waves  dashing 
Swift  darts  the  light  canoe  : 
The  inerrv  hunters  come,  — 
"  What*  cheer  ?  What  cheer  ?  " 
"  We  've  slain  the  deer  !  " 
"  Hurrah  !  you  're  welcome  home  1  " 


The  blithesome  horn  is  sounding, 

And  the  woodman's  loud  halloo  ; 
And  joyous  steps  are  bounding 
To  meet  the  birch  canoe. 

"  Hurrah  !  the  hunters  come  !  " 
And  the  woods  ring  out 
To  their  noisy  shout, 
As  they  drag  the  dun  deer  home  ! 

The  hearth  is  brightly  burning, 
The  rustic  board  is  spread  ; 


634 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


To  greet  their  sire  returning 
The  children  leave  their  bed. 

With  laugh  and  shout  they  come, 


That  merry  band, 
To  grasp  his  hand 
And  bid  him  welcome  home  ! 


THE  WALKER   OF  THE   SNOW 

SPEED  on,  speed  on,  good  master ! 

The  camp  lies  far  away  ; 
We  must  cross  the  haunted  valley 

Before  the  close  of  day. 

How  the  snow-blight  came  upon  me 

I  will  tell  you  as  we  go,  — 
The  blight  of  the  Shadow-hunter, 

Who  walks  the  midnight  snow. 

To  the  cold  December  heaven 

Came  the  pale  moon  and  the  stars, 

As  the  yellow  sun  was  sinking 
Behind  the  purple  bars. 

The  snow  was  deeply  drifted 

Upon  the  ridges  drear, 
That  lay  for  miles  around  me 

And  the  camp  for  which  we  steer. 

'T  was  silent  on  the  hillside, 

And  by  the  solemn  wood 
No  sound  of  life  or  motion 

To  break  the  solitude, 

Save  the  wailing  of  the  moose-bird 
With  a  plaintive  note  and  low, 

And  the  skating  of  the  red  leaf 
Upon  the  frozen  snow. 

And  said  I,  —  "  Though  dark  is  falling, 

And  far  the  camp  must  be, 
Yet  my  heart  it  would  be  lightsome, 

If  I  had  but  company." 

And  then  I  sang  and  shouted, 
Keeping  measure,  as  I  sped, 

To  the  harp-twang  of  the  snow-shoe 
As  it  sprang  beneath  my  tread  ; 


Nor  far  into  the  valley 

Had  I  dipped  upon  my  way, 

When  a  dusky  figure  joined  me, 
In  a  capuchon  of  gray, 

Bending  upon  the  snow-shoes, 
With  a  long  and  limber  stride  ; 

And  I  hailed  the  dusky  stranger, 
As  we  travelled  side  by  side. 

But  no  token  of  communion 

Gave  he  by  word  or  look, 
And  the  fear-chill  fell  upon  me 

At  the  crossing  of  the  brook. 

For  I  saw  by  the  sickly  moonlight, 
As  I  followed,  bending  low, 

That  the  walking  of  the  stranger 
Left  no  footmarks  on  the  snow. 

Then  the  fear-chill  gathered  o'er  me, 
Like  a  shroud  around  me  cast, 

As  I  sank  upon  the  snow-drift 
Where  the  Shadow-hunter  passed. 

And  the  otter-trappers  found  me, 

Before  the  break  of  day, 
With   my   dark  hair   blanched   and 
whitened 

As  the  snow  in  which  I  lay. 

But  they   spoke   not  as  they  raised 
me  ; 

For  they  knew  that  in  the  night 
I  had  seen  the  Shadow-hunter, 

And  had  withered  in  his  blight. 

Sancta  Maria  speed  us  ! 

The  sun  is  falling  low,  — 
Before  us  lies  the  valley 

Of  the  Walker  of  the  Snow  J 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


635 


SCENES  FROM  "SAUL"- 

DAVID    EXORCISING    MALZAH,    THE    EVIL 
SPIRIT   FROM   THE   LORD 

SCENE.  —  A  chamber  of  the  palace.  DAVID 
playing  on  his  harp.  SAUL,  enters  and  listens, 
and  at  length  DAVID  ceases. 

Saul.     Still  more,  still  more  :  I  feel  the 

demon  move 

Amidst  the  gloomy  branches  of  my  breast, 
As  moves  a  bird  that  buries  itself  deeper 
Within  its  nest  at  stirring  of  the  storm. 

[DAVID  plays  again. 
Were  ever  sounds  so  sweet !  —  where  am 

I?  O, 
I   have   been   down   in    hell,   but   this   is 

heaven  ! 

It  grows  yet  sweeter,  —  't  is  a  wondrous  air. 
Methinks  I  lately  died  a  hideous  death, 
And  that   they    buried   me   accursed  and 

cursing. 
But   this   is  not   the   grave  ;    for,   surely, 

music 
Comes   not   to  reanimate  man  'neath   the 

clods. 
Let  me  not  think  on  't !  yet  a  fiend  fierce 

tore  me. 

Ah,  I  remember  now,  too  much  remember  ; 
But  I  am  better  :  still  methinks  I  fainted  ; 
Or  was  the  whole  a  fearful,  nightmare 

dream  ? 

Nay,  am  I  yet  not  dreaming  ?   No ;  I  wake  : 
And,  as  from  dream  or  as  from  being  born, 
Without  the  outcry  of  a  mother's  travail ; 
Or,  as  if  waking  from  a  revery, 
I  to  myself  am  ushered  by  strange  music, 
That,  in  its  solemn  gentleness,  falls  on  me 
Like  a  superior's  blessing.     Give  me  more 
Of  this  sweet  benefit. 

[After  having  listened  again. 
Who  is  this  stranger  ?     Yes,  I  know  him 

now. 

'T  is  not  a  heavenly  spirit,  though  so  like  one, 
With  curving  arms  encompassing  the  harp, 
As  clasps  the  landscape  the  aerial  bow  : 
It  is  the  minstrel  youth  from  Bethlehem  ; 
In  form,  indeed,  surpassing  beautiful. 
Methinks  he  doth  address  himself  to  sing  : 
I  '11  listen,  for  I  love  him  as  he  sits 
Rapt,  like  a  statue  conjured  from  the  air. 
Hist! 


David.     [Sings,  accompanying  himself  on 

his  harp.] 

O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  the  king  • 
The  evil  spirit  from  him  take  • 
His  soul  from  its  sore  suffering 
Deliver,  for  thy  goodness'  sake. 

Saul.     [Aside.]     He  for  me  prays. 

0,  heal  thine  own  A  nointed's  hurt  • 
Let  evil  from  his  thoughts  be  driven; 
And  breathe  upon  his  troubled  heart 
The  balmy  sense  of  fault  forgiven. 

Saul.     [Aside.]     I  would  not  hide   my 
faults  ;  amen. 

Great  God,  thou  art  within  this  place  ; 
The  universe  is  filled  with  thee  : 
To  all  thou  givest  strength  and  grace  • 
O,  give  the  king  thy  grace  to  see. 

Saul.     [Aside.]     What  have  I  done  de- 
served the  loss  of  grace  ? 
I  cannot  say  "  amen  "  ;  —  and  if  I  did, 
My  feeble  amen  would  be  blown  away 
Before  it  had  reached  heaven.     I  cannot 

say  it  : 
There  disbelief  takes  prisoner  my  tongue  ! 

As  after  winter  cometh  spring, 
Make  joy  unto  his  soul  return  ;  — 
And  me,  in  thy  good  pleasure,  bring 
To  tend  my  flock  where  I  was  born. 

Saul.  [Aside.]  So  able,  yet  so  humble  ! 

[Aloud.]  David,  no  ; 

Thou  shalt   remain   and  be   mine   armor- 
bearer. 
What,  wouldst   thou   seek   again  the   idle 

downs, 
'Midst  senseless  sheep,  to  spend  the  listless 

day, 

Watching  the  doings  of  thy  ewes  and  rams  ! 
|   Thou  shalt  go  with  me  to  the  martial  field 
j   And  see  great  deeds  thereon. 
!   Myself  will  teach  thee  military  lessons  ; 
To  tell  the  enemy's  numbers  ;  to  discover 
His  vulnerable  points  ;  by  stratagem 
To  draw  him  from  his  posts  of  vantage  ; 

how 
Swift  to  advance  :  how  to  surprise  the  foe  ; 


636 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


And  how  to  leaven  others  with  thy  courage  ; 
How  win    from   Ammon   and    the   strong 

Philistine, 

And  how  at  last  to  drink  triumphantly, 
From  goblet  of  victorious  return, 
The  blood-red  wine  of  war. 
Meantime,  thy  lyric  pleasures  ueed  not  end  ; 
For  the  fair  maidens  of  the  court  affect 
Music   and  song.     Go    now   and    tell   the 

Queen 
All  the  advantage  thou  hast  been  to  me. 

[Exit  David. 

How  potent  is  the  voice  of  music  !  stronger 
Even  than  is  a  king's  command.     How  oft 
In  vain  have  I  adjured  this  demon  hence  ! 
O  Music,  thou  art  a  magician  !     Strange, 
Most  strange,  we  did  not  sooner  think  of 

thee, 
And  charm  us  with  thy  gentle  sorcery. 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   MALZAH 

Malzdh.     Music,  music  hath  its  sway  ; 
Music's  order  I  obey  : 
I  have  unwound  myself  at  sound 
From  off  Saul's  heart,  where  coiled  I  lay. 
'T  is  true,  awhile  I  've  lost  the  game  ; 
Let  fate  and  me  divide  the  blame. 
And  now  away,  away  ;  but  whither, 
Whither,  meantime,  shall  I  go  ? 
Erelong  I  must  returned  be  hither. 
There's  Jordan,  Danube,  and  the  Po, 
And  Western  rivers  huge,  I  know  : 
There's  Ganges,  and  the  Euphrates, 
Nilus  and  the  stretching  seas  : 
There  's  many  a  lake  and  many  a  glen 
To  rest  me,  as  in  heaven,  again  ; 
With  Alps,  and  the  Himalayan  range  :  — 
And  there  's  the  Desert  for  a  change. 
Whither  shall  I  go  ? 

I  '11  sit  i'  the  sky, 

And  laugh  at  mortals  and  at  care  ; 
(Not  soaring,  as  before,  too  high, 
And  bring  upon  myself  a  snare  ;) 
But  out  my  motley  fancies  spin 
Like  cobwebs  on  the  yellow  air ; 
Laugh  bright  with  joy,  or  dusky  grin 
In  changeful  mood  of  seance  there. 
The  yellow  air  !  the  yellow  air  ! 
He  's  great  who  's  happy  anywhere. 

To  be  the  vassals  and  the  slaves  of  music 
Is  weakness  that  afflicts  all   heaven-born 

spirits. 
But  touch  whom  with  the  murmur  of  a  lute, 


Or  swell  and  fill  whom  from  the  harmo- 
nious lyre, 

And  man  may  lead  them  wheresoe'er  he 
wills, 

And  stare  to  see  the  nude  demoniac 

Sit  clothed  and  void  of  frenzy.  I  '11  be- 
gone, 

And  take  a  posy  with  me  from  Saul's  garden 

[Exit  j  and  soon  re-enters,  bearing  a  huge 
nosegay,  and  thereat  snuffing. 

Shall  I  fling  it  in  the  earth's  face,  whence 
I  took  it ! 

Albeit  I  've  seen,  perhaps,  flowers  as  mean 
in  heaven. 

Well,  I  will  think  that  these  are  heaven's. 
Alack, 

This  is  a  poor  excuse  for  asphodel ; 

And  yet  it  has  the  true  divine  aroma. 

Here  's  ladslove,  and  the  flower  which  even 
death 

Cannot  unscent,  the  all-transcending  rose. 

Here 's  gilly-flower,  and  violets  dark  as  eyes 

Of  Hebrew  maidens.    There  's  convolvulus, 

That  sickens  ere  noon  and  dies  ere  evening. 

Here  's  monkey's-cap.  —  Egad  !  't  would 
cap  a  monkey 

To  say  what  I  have  gathered  ;  for  I  spread 
my  arms 

And  closed  them  like  two  scythes.  I  have 
crushed  many  ; 

I  Ve  sadly  mangled  my  lilies.  However, 
here 

Is  the  august  camellia,  and  here  's  marigold, 

And,  as  I  think,  i'  the  bottom  two  vast  sun- 
flowers. 

There  are  some  bluebells,  and  a  pair  of  fox- 
gloves 

(But  not  of  the  kind  that  Samson's  foxes 
wore). 

That 's  mint ;  and  here  is  something  like  a 
thistle 

Wherewith  to  prick  my  nose  should  I  grow 
sleepy. 

O,  I  Ve  not  half  enumerated  them  ! 

Here 's  that  and  that,  and  many  trifling 
things, 

Which,  had  I  time,  and  were  i'  the  vein  for 
scandal, 

I  could  compare  to  other  trifling  things, 

But  shall  not.  Ah,  here  's  head-hanging- 
down  narcissus, 

A  true  and  perfect  emblem  of  myself. 

I  '11  count  it  my  own  likeness  ;  and  so  leave 
it 

For  delectation  of  my  radiant  mistress, 


CHARLES   HEAVYSEGE 


637 


Who,lieu  of  keeping  watch  and  ward  o'er  me, 
May  keep  it  over  nay  pale  effigy. 

[Drops  the  narcissus. 

I  '11  hang  this  matchless  rose  upon  my  lips, 
And  whilst  I  'm  flying  will  inhale  its  breath. 

[Exit. 

MALZAH  AND  THE  ANGEL  ZELEHTHA 

SCENE.  —  The  Alps.     Time,  night,  with  stars. 
Enter  MALZAH,  walking  slowly. 

Malzah.     So,  so  ;  I  feel  the  signal. 
It  seems  to  reach  me  through  the  air, 
To  Saul  it  prompts  me  to  repair. 
I  wish  't  would  cease  ;  it  doth  not  please 
Me  now  to  terminate  my  leisure. 
I  was  alone  ;  and  here  to  groan 
At  present  is  my  greatest  pleasure. 
I  '11  come  anon  ;  1  say  begone  ; 
What  is  the  wayward  King  to  me  ? 
I  say  begone  ;  I  '11  come  anon. 
O,  thou  art  strong  ;  I  '11  follow  thee. 

[Exit,  and  enter  the  angel  Zelehtha. 
Zelehtha.     He  flees,  he  flees,  across  the 

seas 

That  eastward  lead  to  Canaan's  land  ; 
And  Heaven  commands  me  not  to  cease 
To  urge,  yet  guide,  his  hand. 

[Looking  upwards. 

How  every  star  reminds  nie  of  my  lover  ! 
When  we  did  part,  he  on  me  cast  his  eyes, 
Bright    us    those    orbs.       Yet   over   them 

suffusion 
Came  like  the  mists  o'er  evening,  as  he 

charged  me 

Still  to  him  to  return  (if  so  I  might 
Return  afresh  to  him,  my  home  and  goal), 
What  time  the  earth  returned  day's  light 

to  heaven. 

So  would  I  now  swift  soar  unto  his  bosom, 
But  I  must  not  abandon  this  foul  fiend, 
Until  his  work  is  done.     Hence  do  I  follow 
Him  through  the  spaces  of  the  universe, 
Still  tracking  him  in  silence,  as  I  track 
Him     now    across    these    heaven-piercing 

heights, 

O'er  which  the  quiet,  congregated  stars 
Dance,  twinkling-footed,  and,  in  gladness, 

make 

Mute  immemorial  measure,  without  song. 
Yet  hearken  ;  the  immeasurable  yawn 
Methinks  awakens,  and,  by  me  evoked, 
This  grave  of  silence  gives  a  ghost  of  sound. 
What  song  is  that  which  wanders  hither- 
ward, 


Falling  as  faintly  and  as  dewlike  down 
Into  the  urn  of  my  night-opened  ear, 
As  might,  like  incense,  to  the  nostril  come 
The  floating  fragrance  of  a  far-off  flower  ? 
It  is  the  voice  of  some  desiring  seraph, 
That  lonely  sings  unto  her  absent  love  ; 
And,  in  the  breathing  of  her  languishmeiit, 
Gives   more   than  words   unto   the    dumb 

abyss. 

I  '11  also  sing,  since  some  ascending  angel 
May  hear  it,  and  repeat  it  to  my  cherub. 

[Sings. 

I  said,  farewell, 
And  smiled,  —  for  tears  yet  never  fell  in 

heaven  ; 

But  thou  didst  sigh, 

"  Farewell,"  didst  sigh  ;  "  return  to  me 
at  even." 

But  why  at  even 

Didst  thou  to  thee  solicit  my  return  ? 

Since  distance  cannot 

Divide  us  who  in  old  embraces  burn. 

Then  let 's  unsay 

"Farewell," — which  we  ought  never  to 

have  said, 
But,  each  to  each, 
Words  of  rejoicing  and  delight  instead. 

Lorn  thoughts  from  thee 

Put  far,  then,   since,  though  now  from 

thee  apart, 
I  soon  shall  be 
Again  thy  love-mate,  whereso'er  thou  art. 

Lo,    where    yon    demon,    with   increasing 

speed, 
Makes   his  dim  way  across  the  nighthung 

flood, 

Due  to  the  Hebrew  King,  with  onward  heed, 
Like  to  a  hound  that   snuffs  the  scent  of 

blood. 
I  '11  follow  him.  [Exit. 


TWILIGHT 

THE  day  was  lingering  in  the  pale  north- 
west, 

And  light  was  hanging  o'er  my  head, 
Night  where  a  myriad  stars  were  spread  ; 
While  down  in  the  east,  where  the  light 

was  least, 
Seemed  the  home  of  the  quiet  dead. 


638 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


And,  as  I  gazed  on  the  field  sublime 
To  watch  the  bright  pulsating  stars, 
Adown  the  deep,  where  the  angels 

sleep, 
Came  drawn  the  golden  chime 


Of  those  great  spheres  that  sound  the  years 

For  the  horologe  of  time  ;  — 
Millenniums  numberless  they  told, 
Millenniums  a  millionfold 

From  the  ancient  hour  of  prime  ! 


FROM   THE    DRAMA   OF  "DE 
ROBERVAL" 

OHN^WA 

SCENE.  —  Within  the  fort  of  Quebec.    Soldiers 
carousing. 

One  sings : 

Fill,  comrades,  fill  the  bowl  right  well, 
Trowl   round   the   can  with   mirth   and 

glee, 

Zip-zip,  huzza,  Noel !  Noel ! 
A  health  to  me,  a  health  to  thee 

And  Normaudie. 
Chorus : 

Pass,  comrades,  pass  the  reaming  can, 
And  swig  the  draught  out  every  man  ! 

Another  round  as  deep  as  last, 

Down  to  the  bottom  peg,  pardie  ! 
Eyes  to   the   front,  —  half   pikes,  —  stand 

fast! 

A  health  to  me,  a  health  to  thee 
And  Picardie. 

Chorus : 

Pass,  comrades,  pass  the  reaming  can, 
And  swig  the  draught  out  every  man  ! 

Though  this  be  naught  but  soldiers'  tap, 

None  better  wine  none  ne'er  did  see, 
It  riped  on  our  own  crofts  mayhap, 
So  here 's  a  health  to  thee,  to  me 

And  fair  Lorraine, 
Again  — 

Lorraine  ! 
Chorus  : 

May  he  be  shot  that  shirks  the  can  ! 
Quick,  drain  the  draught  out  every  man ! 

Enter  OHNAWA  :  Soldiers  crowd  around  her. 

1st  Soldier.   Whom  have  we  here  ?    This 
is  a  shapely  wench. 


2d  Sold.     Clean-limbed. 
3d  Sold.        Round-armed. 
1th  Sold.  Svelte. 

5th  Sold.  And  lithe  and  lissome. 

6th  Sold.   Like  a  Provenc.ale  in  her  mum- 
ming garb 
On  Pope  Unreason's  day.    But  where  's  her 

dog? 
7th   Sold.     I    saw  one  like  that   one  in 

Italy  ; 
A  statue  like  her  as  two  peas.    They  called 

her 
Bronze  something,  —  I  forget.     They  dug 

her  up, 

And  polished  her,  and  set  her  up  on  end. 
1st  Sold.     Hi !  graven  image,  hast  thou 

ne'er  a  tongue  ? 
2d  Sold.     How  should  she  speak  but  as 

a  magpie  chatters, 
Chat,  chat  !  pretty  Mag  ! 
"  3d  Sold.     Leave  her  alone,  now. 
1th. Sold.     Lay  hold  on  her  and  see  if  she 
feels  warm. 

[OHNAWA  draws  a  knife. 
All.    Aha  !  well  done  !  encore  the  scene  ! 

well  played  ! 

[ROBERVAL  approaches  •  she  advances  to- 
wards him. 

Soldiers.  [Retiring.']  Meat  for  our  master. 
Rob.  Ohnawa  ! 

Ohn.  Great  Chief: 

Rob.     What  then,  my  wild  fawn,  has  't 

indeed  come  in, 

A  live  pawn  for  thy  people  ?     Then  I  hope 
'T  will  be  long  time  ere  they  make  mat- 
ters up, 
So  that  we  still  may  keep   thee   hostage 

here. 
But  say,  do  practised  warriors,  shrewd  and 

cunning, 
Send  such  bright  eyes  as  thine  to  armed 

camp, 

To  glancing  catch  full  note  of  our  weak 
points 


JOHN  HUNTER-DUVAR 


639 


Or  of  our  strength  ?    We  hang  up  spies, 

Ohnawa. 
Ohn.     I  am   no  spy.     No  warrior  sent 

me  here. 

Rob.     Why  didst  thou  come  ? 
Ohn.          Didst  thou  thyself  not  ask  me  ? 
Rob.   I  did,  i'  faith  ;  and  now,  thou  being 

here 

Shalt  see  such  wonders  as  are  to  be  seen. 
They  will  impress   thy  untutored   savage 

mind. 
Not'st  thou  those  arms  upon  that  slender 

mast, 
Whose  fingers,  sudden  moving,  form  new 

shapes  ? 

By  that  we  speak,  without  the  aid  of  words, 
Long  leagues  away. 

Ohn.  This  is  not  new  to  me. 

Our  braves,  on   journeys,  speak   in  silent 

signs 
By  leaves,  grass,  mosses,  feathers,  twigs 

and  stones, 

So  that  our  people  can  o'ertake  the  trail, 
And  tell  a  message  after  many  moons. 
Rob.   I  have  heard  of  the  woodland  sema- 
phore. 
'T  is  a  thing  to  be  learned,  —  and  acted 

on. 
Ohn.   Why  dost  thou  raise  thy  head-gear 

to  that  blanket  ? 
Rob.    Blanket  !  young  savage,  —  't  is  the 

flag  of  France, 

The  far  most  glorious  flag  of  earth  and  sea, 
That,  floating  over  all  this  continent, 
Shall  yet  surmount  the  red  brick  towers  of 

Spain. 
But,  pshaw  !  why  do  I  speak. 

Gunner,  fire  off  a  fauconet. 

[Gun. 

What,  not  a  wink  ?     Art  thou,  then,  really 

bronze, 
Insensible  to  wonder  ? 

Ohn,  All  is  new. 

Rob.     Then  why  not  show  astonishment  ? 

Young  maids, 

When  marvels  are  presented  to  their  view, 
Clasp   their   fore-fingers,  or   put   hand   to 

ears, 
Simper,  cry  "  O,   how  nice  ! "  look   down 

and  giggle, 

And  show  the  perturbation  of  weak  minds. 
Ohn.     I   see  new  marvels   that  I  ne'er 

have  seen, 

But  when  I  once  have  seen  them  they  are 
old. 


Rob.     These  are  the   stables  where  the 
chargers  are. 

[Horse  led  out  •  Groom  gallops. 
No  wonder  in  thine  eyes  even  at  this  sight  ? 
Canst  thou  look  on  this  steed,  and  yet  not 

feel 

No  sight  so  beautiful  in  all  the  world  ? 
Ohn.     I  have  seen  herds  of  these  brave 

gallant  beasts. 
Rob.      [Quickly. ~\      When?   where   was 

this? 

Ohn.  When  that  I  was  a  child 

A  tribe  came  scouting  from  the  sinking  sun, 
The  hatchet  buried,  on  a  pilgrimage 
To  take  salt  water  back  from  out  the  sea, 
As  is  their  custom  in  their  solemn  rites. 
They  all  were  mounted,  every  one,  on  steeds. 
Rob.     Indeed ! 
Ohn.     Our  brethren,  who  live  six  moons 

nearer  night, 

And  many  more  in  number  than  the  stars, 
With   steeds  in  number   many  more  than 

they, 

Dwell  on  the  boundless,  grassy,  hunting- 
plains, 
Beyond  which  mountains  higher  than  the 

clouds, 

And  on  the  other  side  of  them  the  sea. 
Rob.     Important   this,   but   of    it   more 
anon. 

[  They  enter  the  caserne. 
These   are   called  books.     These   are   the 

strangest  things 
Thou  yet  hast  seen.     I  take  one  of  them 

down, 
And  lo  !  a  learned  dead  man  comes  from 

his  grave, 

Sits  in  my  chair  and  holds  discourse  with  me. 
And  these  are  pictures. 

Ohn.  They  are  good  totem. 

Rob.     These,  maps. 

Ohn.  I,  with  a  stick,  upon  the  sand 

Can  trace  the  like. 

Rob.  By  'r  Lady  of  St.  Roque 

That  shalt  thou  do  !     The  Pilot  missed  it 

there  ; 
These   savages   must   know  their  country 

well. 

This  girl  shall  be  my  chief  topographer, 
By  her  I  '11  learn  the  gold  and  silver  coast 
That  Cartier  could  not  find. 
Come  hither  to  this  window.     Music,  ho  ! 

[Band  plays. 

Art  thou  not  pleased  with  these  melodious 
sounds  ? 


640 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


Ohn.     The  small  sounds  sparkle  like  a 

forest  fire, 
The   big  horn  brays  like  lowing  of  the 

moose, 
The  undertone  is  as  Niagara. 

Rob.     Have  ye  no  music,  enfans,  in  the 

woods  ? 

No  brave  high  ballad  that  your  warriors  sing 
To  cheer  them  on  a  march  ? 

Ohn.  We  have  music, 

But  our  braves  sing  not.     We  have  tribal 

bards 

Who  see  in  dreams  things  to  make  music  of. 
They  tell  our  squaws,  and  the  good  mothers 

croon 
Them  over  to  their  little  ones  asleep. 

Rob.     Sing  me  a  forest  song,  one  of  thine 

own. 
[OHNAWA  goes  to  a  drum  and  beats  softly 

with  her  hand,  humming  the  while. 
This  verily  is  music  without  words. 
Explain,  now,  what  its  purport  most  may 

mean. 
Ohn.     The  cataracts  in  the  forests  have 

many  voices, 
They  talk  all  day  and  converse  beneath  the 

stars, 

The  mists  hide  their  faces  from  the  moon. 
The  spirits  of  braves  come  down  from  the 

hunting-grounds  ; 
They  swim  in  the  night  rainbows,  and  stalk 

among  the  trees, 
Hearing  the  voice  of  the  waters. 

Rob.    Poetic,  by  my  soul.    Why,  Ohnawa, 
I  've  found  a  treasure  in  thee.     Go  now, 

child  ; 

Halt  e'er  thou  goest ! 
Here  are  our  wares  for  trading  with  the 

tribes  ; 

Take  something  with  thee  for  remembrance, 
Bright  scarlet  cloth,  beads,  buttons,  rosaries, 
Ribbons    and   huswifes,   scissors,    looking- 
glasses  — 

To  civilized  and  savage  women  dear. 
Take  one,  take  anything,  nay,  lade  thyself. 
Nothing  ?     Shrewd  damsel,  but  that  shall 

not  be  ; 

No  visitor  declines  a  souvenir. 
What  hast  thou  ta'en  ?     A  dagger  double- 
edged  : 
Good,  't  is  a  choice  appropriate  ;  guard  it 

well, 

And  hide  it  in  thy  corset,  —  I  forget, 
Thou  wear'st  none.     Go  now,  girl,  —  and 

come  again. 


ADIEU   TO   FRANCE 

ADIEU  to  France  !  my  latest  glance 
Falls  on  thy  port  and  bay,  Rochelle  ; 

The  sun-rays  on  the  surf-curls  dance, 
And  springtime,  like  a  pleasing  spell, 

Harmonious  holds  the  land  and  sea. 
How  long,  alas,  I  cannot  tell, 

Ere  this  scene  will  come  back  to  me  ! 

The  hours  fleet  fast,  and  on  the  mast 
Soon  shall  I  hoist  the  parting  sail  j 

Soon  will  the  outer  bay  be  passed, 
And  on  the  sky-line  eyes  will  fail 

To  see  a  streak  that  means  the  land. 
On,  then  !  before  the  tides  and  gale, 

Hope  at  the  helm,  and  in  God's  hand. 

What  doom  I  meet,  my  heart  will  beat 

For  France,  the  ddbonnaire  and  gay  ; 
She  ever  will  in  memory's  seat 

Be  present  to  my  mind  alway. 
Hope  whispers  my  return  to  you, 

Dear   land,   but    should    Fate    say  me 

nay, 
And  this  should  be  my  latest  view, 

Fair  France,  loved  France,  my  France, 

adieu  ! 
Salut  a  la  France,  salut ! 

TWILIGHT   SONG 

THE  mountain  peaks  put  on  their  hoods, 

Good-night ! 

And  the  long  shadows  of  the  woods 
Would  fain  the  landscape  cover  quite  ; 
The  timid  pigeons  homeward  fly,' 
Scared  by  the  whoop  owl 's  eerie  cry, 

Whoo-oop  !  whoo-oop  ! 
As  like  a  fiend  he  flitteth  by  ; 
The  ox  to  stall,  the  fowl  to  coop, 
The  old  man  to  his  nightcap  warm, 
Young  men  and  maids  to  slumbers  light,  '"*» 
Sweet  Mary,  keep  our  souls  from  harm  ! 

Good-night !  good-night ! 

THE   GALLANT    FLEET 

A  GALLANT  fleet  sailed  out  to  sea 
With  the  pennons  streaming  merrily. 

On  the  hulls  the  tempest  lit, 
And  the  great  ships  split 

In  the  gale, 
And  the  foaming  fierce  sea-horses 


CHARLES   MAIR 


641 


Hurled  the  fragments  in  their  forces 
To  the  ocean  deeps, 
Where  the  kraken  sleeps, 
And  the  whale. 

The  men  are  in  the  ledges'  clefts, 

Dead,  —  but  with  motion  of  living  guise 

Their  bodies  are  rocking  there  ; 
Monstrous  sea-fish  and  efts 

Stare  at  them  with  glassy  eyes 

As  their  limbs  are  stirred  and  their 
hair. 

Moan,  O  sea  ! 

O  death  at  once  and  the  grave, 
And  sorrow  in  passing,  O  cruel  wave  ! 
Let  the  resonant  sea-caves  ring, 
And  the  sorrowful  surges  sing, 
For  the  dead  men  rest  but  restlessly. 

We  do  keep  account  of  them 
And  sing  an  ocean  requiem 
For  the  brave. 


BRAWN   OF   ENGLAND'S  LAY 

THE  villeins  clustered  round  the  bowl 
At  merrie  Yule  to  make  good  cheer, 
And  drank  with  froth  on  beard  and  jowl  : 

"  Was-hael  to  the  Thane  ! 

May  never  Breton  taste  our  beer, 
Nor  Dane." 

Till  the  red  cock  on  the  chimney  crew, 
And  each  man  cried  with  a  mighty  yawn 
As  the  tapster  one  more  flagon  drew  : 

"  To  the  Saxon  land  was-hael ! 

May  we  never  want  for  mast-fed  brawn 
Nor  ale  ! " 

The  thane  took  up  the  stirrup-cup 
And  blew  off  the  reaming  head, 
And  at  one  draught  he  swigged  it  up 
And  smacked  his  lips  and  said  : 

"  Was-hael  to  coulter  and  sword  ! 

Was-hael  to  hearth  and  hall  ! 

To  Saxon  land  and  Saxon  lord 

And  thrall." 


FROM  "TECUMSEH:   A  DRAMA" 

LEFROY   IN    THE   FOREST 

THIS  region  is  as  lavish  of  its  flowers 
As  Heaven  of  its  primrose  blooms  by  night. 
This  is  the  Arum,  which  within  its  root 
Folds  life  and  death  ;  and  this  the  Prince's 

Pine, 
Fadeless   as  love   and  truth  —  the  fairest 

form 
That  ever  sun-shower  washed  with  sudden 

rain. 

This  golden  cradle  is  the  Moccasin  Flower, 
Wherein  the  Indian  hunter  sees  his  hound  ; 
And  this  dark  chalice  is  the  Pitcher-Plant, 
Stored  with  the  water  of  forgetfulness. 
Whoever  drinks  of  it,  whose  heart  is  pure, 
Will  sleep  for  aye  'neath  foodf ull  asphodel, 
And  dream  of  endless  love. 


There  was  a  time  on  this  fair  continent 
When  all  things  throve  in  spacious  peace- 
fulness. 


The  prosperous  forests  unmolested  stood, 
For  where  the  stalwart  oak  grew  there  it 

lived 

Long  ages,  and  then  died  among  its  kind. 
The  hoary  pines  —  those   ancients  of   the 

earth  — 

Brimful  of  legends  of  the  early  world, 
Stood  thick  on  their  own  mountains  unsub- 
dued ; 

And  all  things  else  illumined  by  the  sun, 
Inland  or  by  the  lifted  wave,  had  rest. 
The  passionate  or  calm  pageants  of  the  skies 
No  artist  drew  ;  but  in  the  auburn  west 
Innumerable  faces  of  fair  cloud 
Vanished  in  silent  darkness  with  the  day. 
The   prairie    realm  —  vast    ocean's    para- 
phrase — 

Rich  in  wild  grasses  numberless,  and  flowers 
L'nnamed  save  in  mute  Nature's  inventory, 
No  civilized  barbarian  trenched  for  gain. 
And  all  that  flowed  was  sweet  and  uncor- 

rupt  : 

The  rivers  and  their  tributary  streams, 
Undammed,  wound  on  forever,  and  gave  up 
Their  lonely  torrents  to  weird  gulfs  of  sea, 


642 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


And  ocean  wastes  unshadowed  by  a  sail. 
And  all  the  wild  life  of  this  western  world 
Knew  not  the  fear  of  man  ;  yet  in  those 

woods, 
And  by  those  plenteous  streams  and  mighty 

lakes, 

And  on  stupendous  steppes  of  peerless  plain, 
And  in  the  rocky  gloom  of  canyons  deep, 
Screened  by  the  stony  ribs  of  mountains  hoar 
Which  steeped  their  snowy  peaks  in  purg- 
ing cloud, 

And  down  the  continent  where  tropic  suns 
Warmed   to   her   very   heart    the   mother 

earth, 
And  in  the  congealed  north  where  silence 

self 

Ached  with  intensity  of  stubborn  frost, 
There  lived  a  soul  more  wild  than  barba- 
rous ; 
A   tameless    soul  —  the    sunburnt    savage 

free  — 

Free  and  untainted  by  the  greed  of  gain, 
Great  Nature's  man,  content  with  Nature's 
food. 

IENA'S  SONG 

FLY  far  from  me, 

Even  as  the  daylight  flies, 
And  leave  me  in  the  darkness  of  my  pain  ! 
Some  earlier  love  will  come  to  thee  again, 

And  sweet  new  moons  will  rise, 
And  smile  on  it  and  thee. 

Fly  far  from  me, 

Even  whilst  the  daylight  wastes  — 
Ere  thy  lips  burn  me  in  a  last  caress  ; 
Ere  fancy  quickens,  and  my  longings  press, 

And  my  weak  spirit  hastes 
For  shelter  unto  thee  ! 

Fly  far  from  me, 

Even  whilst  the  daylight  pales  — 
So  shall  we  never,  never  meet  again  ! 
Fly  !  for  my  senses  swim  —  Oh,  Love  !   Oh, 
Pain  !  — 

Help  !  for  my  spirit  fails  — 
I  cannot  fly  from  thee  ! 

THE   BUFFALO   HERDS 

Lefroy.  We  left 

The  silent  forest,  and,  day  after  day, 
Great   prairies   swept  beyond   our   aching 
sight 


Into    the    measureless    West  :    uncharted 

realms, 
Voiceless  and  calm,  save  when  tempestuous 

wind 

Rolled  the  rank  herbage  into  billows  vast, 
And   rushing  tides,   which  never  found  a 

shore. 
And  tender  clouds,  and  veils  of  morning 

mist 

Cast  flying  shadows,  chased  by  flying  light, 
Into  interminable  wildernesses, 
Flushed  with  fresh  blooms,  deep  perfumed 

by  the  rose, 
And  murmurous  with  flower-fed  bird  and 

bee. 
The  deep-grooved  bison-paths  like  furrows 

lay, 
Turned  by  the  cloven  hoofs  of  thundering 

herds 

Primeval,  and  still  travelled  as  of  yore. 
And  gloomy  valleys  opened  at  our  feet  — 
Shagged   with  dusk   cypresses   and   hoary 

pine  ; 
And    sunless    gorges,   rummaged    by  the 

wolf, 
Which  through  long  reaches  of  the  prairie 

wound, 

Then  melted  slowly  into  upland  vales, 
Lingering,    far  -  stretched     amongst     the 

spreading  hills. 
Brock.    What  charming  solitudes  !    And 

life  was  there  ! 

Lefroy.     Yes,  life   was   there  !   inexpli- 
cable life, 

Still  wasted  by  inexorable  death. 
There  had  the  stately  stag  his  battle-field  — 
Dying  for  mastery  among  his  hinds. 
There  vainly  sprung  the  affrighted  ante- 
lope, 

Beset  by  glittering  eyes  and  hurrying  feet. 
The    dancing  grouse,    at    their    insensate 

sport, 
Heard  not   the   stealthy   footstep   of  the 

fox  ; 

The  gopher  on  his  little  earthwork  stood, 
With  folded  arms,  unconscious  of  the  fate 
That  wheeled   in  narrowing  circles   over- 
head, 
And  the  poor  mouse,  on  heedless  nibbling 

bent, 

Marked  not  the  silent  coiling  of  the  snake. 
At   length  we   heard  a  deep  and   solerm* 

sound  — 

Erupted  meanings  of  the  troubled  earth 
Trembling:  beneath  innumerable  feet. 


JOHN   E.   LOGAN 


643 


A  growing  uproar  blending  in  our  ears, 
With  noise  tumultuous  as  ocean's  surge, 
Of  bellowings,  fierce  breath  and  battle 

shock, 

And  ardor  of  unconquerable  herds. 
A  multitude  whose   trampling   shook   the 

plains, 
With  discord  of  harsh  sound  and  rumblings 

deep, 

As  if  the  swift  revolving  earth  had  struck, 
And  from  some  adamantine  peak  recoiled  — 


Jarring.      At   length   we   topped   a  high- 
browed  hill  — 

The  last  and  loftiest  of  a  file  of  such  — 
And,  lo  !  before  us  lay  the  tameless  stock, 
Slow  -  wending   to   the    northward   like   a 

cloud ! 

A  multitude  in  motion,  dark  and  dense  — 
Far  as   the  eye   could  reach,  and  farther 

still, 

In  countless  myriads  stretched  for  many  a 
league. 


("  BARRY   DANE  ") 


THE   NOR'-WEST   COURIER 

UP,  my  dogs,  merrily, 
The  morn  sun  is  shining, 
Our  path  is  uncertain, 
And  night's  sombre  curtain 

May  drop  on  us,  verily, 
Ere  time  for  reclining  ; 
So,  up,  without  whining, 

You  rascals,  instanter, 
Come  into  your  places 
There,  stretch  out  your  traces, 

And  off,  at  a  canter. 

Up,  my  dogs,  cheerily, 
The  noon  sun  is  glowing  ; 
Fast  and  still  faster, 
Come,  follow  your  master  ; 
Or  to-night  we  may  wearily, 
Tired  and  drearily, 
Travel,  not  knowing 

What  moment  disaster 
May  sweep  in  the  storm-blast, 
And  over  each  form  cast 
A  shroud  in  its  blowing. 

On,  my  dogs,  steadily, 

Though  keen  winds  are  shifting 
The  snowflakes,  and  drifting 

Them  straight  in  your  faces  ; 
Come,  answer  me  readily, 
Not  wildly  nor  headily, 
Plunging  and  lifting 

Your  feet,  keep  your  paces  ; 
For  yet  we  shall  weather 
The  blizzard  together, 

Though  evil  our  case  is. 


Sleep,  my  dogs,  cosily, 
Coiled  near  the  fire, 
That  higher  and  higher 
Sheds  its  light  rosily 
Out  o'er  the  snow  and  sky  ; 
Sleep  in  the  ruddy  glow, 
Letting  Keewaydiu  blow 
Fierce  in  his  ire. 
Sleep,  my  dogs,  soundly  ; 
For  to-morrow  we  roundly 
Must  buffet  the  foe. 


A   BLOOD-RED    RING    HUNG 
ROUND  THE  MOON 

A  BLOOD-RED  ring  hung  round  the  moon, 
Hung   round  the    moon.     Ah  me  !    Ah 
me  ! 

I  heard  the  piping  of  the  Loon, 
A  wounded  Loon.     Ah  me  ! 

And  yet  the  eagle  feathers  rare, 

I,  trembling,  wove  in  my  brave's  hair. 

He  left  me  in  the  early  morn, 

The  early  morn.     Ah  me  !  Ah  me  ! 

The  feathers  swayed  like  stately  corn, 
So  like  the  corn.     Ah  me  ! 

A  fierce  wind  swept  across  the  plain, 

The  stately  corn  was  snapped  in  twain. 

They  crushed  in  blood  the  hated  race, 
The  hated  race.     Ah  me  !  Ah  me  I 

I  only  clasped  a  cold,  blind  face, 
His  cold,  dead  face.     Ah  me  ! 

A  blood-red  ring  hangs  in  my  sight, 

I  hear  the  Loon  cry  every  night. 


644 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


A   DEAD    SINGER 

FAIR  little  spirit  of  the  woodland  mazes, 

Thou  liest  sadly  low, 

No  more  the  purple  vetch  and   star-eyed 
daisies 

Thy  mating  hymn  shall  know. 

No  more  the  harebell  by  the  silent  river 

Shall  bend  her  dainty  ear, 
When    nigh    thou    fliest,  and    her  petals 
quiver 

With  maiden  joy  to  hear. 

No  more  to  flit  among  the  yellow  mustard, 

Imperial  thistle  tops, 

And   intertwining  woodbine,  thickly  clus- 
tered 

With  tendrils  of  wild  hops. 

No  more   the  dragon's  darting  course   to 
follow 

O'er  golden,  sunlit  sheaves  ; 
No  more  to  catch,  within  the  shady  hollow, 

The  dew  from  spangled  leaves. 


No  more  above  the  scented  rose  to  hover, 

Sipping  its  fragrant  fee  ; 
No  more  to  chase,  across  the  billowy  clover, 

The  velvet-coated  bee. 

What  fatal  stroke  has  torn  the  downy  cinc- 
ture, 

Round  thy  once  tuneful  throat 
And  pulseless  bosom,  where  a  deathly  tinc- 
ture 
Dyes  thy  soft  feathery  coat  ? 

No  gentle   mate  and  thou  shalt  wing  to- 
gether, 

With  tender  chicks,  your  way, 
To   sunnier  southern  fields,  when  autumn 

weather 
Chills  the  short  northern  day. 

Dead    is  the   soul  of   love  and  song  and 

laughter, 

That  thrilled  thy  fragile  breast,  — 
There  is  no  more  for  thee,  but  dead  here« 

after 
Of  unbegotten  rest. 


TO  A  HUMMING   BIRD    IN  A 
GARDEN 

BLITHE  playmate  of  the  Summer  time, 

Admiringly  I  greet  thee  ; 
Born  in  old  England's  misty  clime, 

I  scarcely  hoped  to  meet  thee. 

Com'st  thou  from  forests  of  Peru, 
Or  from  Brazil's  savannahs, 

Where  flowers  of  every  dazzling  hue 
Flaunt,  gorgeous  as  Sultanas  ? 

Thou  scannest  me  with  doubtful  gaze, 

Suspicious  little  stranger  ! 
Fear   not,    thy   burnished  wings  may 
blaze 

Secure  from  harm  or  danger. 

Now    here,    now    there,   thy   flash    is 

seen, 
Like  some  stray  sunbeam  darting, 


With  scarce  a  second's  space  between 
Its  coming  and  departing. 

Mate  of  the  bird  that  lives  sublime 

In  Pat's  immortal  blunder, 
Spied  in  two  places  at  a  time, 

Thou  challengest  our  wonder. 

Suspended  by  thy  slender  bill, 
Sweet  blooms  thou  lov'st  to  rifle  ; 

The  subtle  perfumes  they  distil 
Might  well  thy  being  stifle. 

Surely  the  honey-dew  of  flowers 

Is  slightly  alcoholic, 
Or  why,  through  burning  August  hours, 

Dost  thou  pursue  thy  frolic  ? 

What  though  thy  throatlet  never  rings 
With  music,  soft  or  stirring  ; 

Still,  like  a  spinning-wheel,  thy  wings 
Incessantly  are  whirring. 


GEORGE   FREDERICK   CAMERON 


645 


How  dearly  I  would  love  to  see 

Thy  tiny  cara  sposa, 
As  full  of  sensibility 

As  any  coy  mimosa  ! 

They  say,  when  hunters  track  her  nest 
Where  two  warm  pearls  are  lying, 

She  boldly  fights,  though  sore  distrest, 
And  sends  the  brigands  flying. 

What  dainty  epithets  thy  tribes 
Have  won  from  men  of  science  ! 

Pedantic  and  poetic  scribes 
For  once  are  in  alliance. 

Crested  Coquette,  and  Azure  Crown, 

Sun  Jewel,  Ruby-Throated, 
With  Flaming  Topaz,  Crimson  Down, 

Are  names  that  may  be  quoted. 

Such  titles  aim  to  paint  the  hues 

That  on  the  darlings  glitter, 
And  were  we  for  a  week  to  muse, 

We  scarce  could  light  on  fitter. 

Farewell,  bright  bird  !  I  envy  thee, 

Gay  rainbow-tinted  rover  ; 
Would  that  my  life,  like  thine,  were  free 

From  care  till  all  is  over  ! 


A   LESSON    OF   MERCY 

BENEATH  a  palm-tree  by  a  clear  cool  spring 
God's  Prophet,  Mahomet,  lay  slumbering, 
Till,  roused  by  chance,  he  saw  before  him 

stand 

A  foeman,  Durther,  scimitar  in  hand. 
The  chieftain  bade  the  startled  sleeper  rise  ; 
And  with  a  flame  of  triumph  in  his  eyes, 
"  Who  now  can  save  thee,  Mahomet  ?  "  he 

cried. 
"God,"  said  the  Prophet,  "God,  my  friend 

and  guide." 
Awe-struck   the  Arab  dropped   his  naked 

sword, 

Which,  grasped  by  Mahomet,  defied  its  lord : 
And,  "  Who  can  save  thee  now  thy  blade 

is  won  ?  " 
Exclaimed  the  Prophet.    Durther  answered, 

"  None  ! " 
Then  spake  the  victor  :  "  Though  thy  hands 

are  red 

With  guiltless  blood  unmercifully  shed, 
I  spare  thy  life,  I  give  thee  back  thy  steel : 
Henceforth,  compassion    for   the   helpless 

feel." 

And  thus  the  twain,  unyielding  foes  of  yore, 
Clasped  hands  in  token  that  their  feud  was 

o'er. 


f  refeerkft  Cameron 


THE    GOLDEN    TEXT 


You  ask  for  fame  or  power  ? 

Then  up,  and  take  for  text  :  — 
This  is  my  hour, 

And  not  the  next,  nor  next  ! 

Oh,  wander  not  in  ways 

Of  ease  or  indolence  ! 
Swift  come  the  days, 

And  swift  the  days  go  hence. 

Strike  !  while  the  hand  is  strong  : 
Strike  !  while  you  can  and  may 

Strength  goes  ere  long,  — 
Even  yours  will  pass  away. 

Sweet  seem  the  fields,  and  green, 
In  which  you  fain  would  lie  ; 

Sweet  seems  the  scene 
That  glads  the  idle  eye  ; 


Soft  seems  the  path  you  tread, 
And  balmy  soft  the  air,  — 

Heaven  overhead 

And  all  the  earth  seems  fair  ; 

But,  would  your  heart  aspire 
To  noble  things,  —  to  claim 

Bard's,  statesman's  fire  — 

Some  measure  of  their  fame  ; 

Or,  would  you  seek  and  find 

The  secret  of  success 
With  mortal  kind  ? 

Then,  up  from  idleness  ! 

Up  —  up  !  all  fame,  all  power 
Lies  in  this  golden  text : 

This  is  my  hour  — 
And  not  the  next  nor  next  I 


646 


DOMINION  OF   CANADA 


STANDING   ON   TIPTOE 

STANDING  on  tiptoe  ever  since  my  youth, 
Striving  to  grasp  the  future  just  above, 

I  hold  at  length  the  only  future  —  Truth, 
And  Truth  is  Love. 

I  feel  as  one  who  being  awhile  confined 
Sees   drop  to  dust  about  him  all    his 

bars  :  — 
The  clay  grows   less,  and,  leaving  it,  the 

mind 
Dwells  with  the  stars. 

WHAT    MATTERS    IT 

WHAT  reck  we  of  the  creeds  of  men  ? 

We  see  them  —  we  shall  see  again. 
What  reck  we  of  the  tempest's  shock  ? 
What  reck  we  where  our  anchor  lock, 

On  golden  marl  or  mould, 
In  salt-sea  flower  or  riven  rock, 

What  matter,  so  it  hold  ? 

What  matters  it  the  spot  we  fill 

On  Earth's  green  sod  when  all  is  said  ? 

When  feet  and  hands  and  heart  are  still 
And  all  our  pulses  quieted  ? 

When  hate  or  love  can  kill  nor  thrill, 
When  we  are  done  with  life  and  dead  ? 


So  we  be  haunted  night  nor  day 
By  any  sin  that  we  have  sinned, 

What  matter  where  we  dream  away 
The  ages  ?     In  the  isles  of  Ind, 

In  Tybee,  Cuba,  or  Cathay, 

Or  in  some  world  of  winter  wind  ? 

It  may  be  I  would  wish  to  sleep 

Beneath  the  wan,  white  stars  of  June, 

And  hear  the  southern  breezes  creep 
Between  me  and  the  mellow  moon  ; 

But  so  I  do  not  wake  to  weep 
At  any  night  or  any  moon, 

And  so  the  generous  gods  allow 

Repose  and  peace  from  evil  dreams, 

It  matters  little  where  or  how 

My   couch    be    spread  :     by    moving 
streams, 

Or  on  some  eminent  mountain's  brow 
Kissed  by  the  morn's  or  sunset's  beams. 

For    we    shall    rest ;      the    brain    that 

planned, 
That  thought   or  wrought   or  well   or 

ill, 
At  gaze  like  Joshua's  moon  shall  stand, 

Not  working  any  work  or  will, 
While  eye  and  lip  and  heart  and  hand 
Shall  all  be  still  —  shall  all  be  still ! 


Falamep  Cratoforb 


THE   CANOE 


MY  masters  twain  made  me  a  bed 
Of  pine-boughs  resinous,  and  cedar  ; 
Of  moss,  a  soft  and  gentle  breeder 
Of  dreams  of  rest  ;  and  me  they  spread 
With  furry  skins,  and,  laughing,  said,  — 
"  Now  she  shall  lay  her  polished  sides 
As  queens  do  rest,  or  dainty  brides, 
Our  slender  lady  of  the  tides  !  " 

My  masters  twain  their  camp-soul  lit, 
Streamed  incense  from  the  hissing  cones  ; 
Large  crimson  flashes  grew  and  whirled, 
Thin  golden  nerves  of  sly  light  curled, 
Round  the  dun  camp,  and  rose  faint  zones 
Half-way  about  each  grim  bole  knit, 
Like  a  shy  child  that  would  bedeck 
With  its  soft  clasp  a  Brave's  red  neck, 


Yet  sees  the  rough  shield  on  his  breast, 
The  awful  plumes  shake  on  his  crest, 
And  fearful  drops  his  timid  face, 
Nor  dares  complete  the  sweet  embrace. 

Into  the  hollow  hearts  of  brakes 
Yet  warm  from  sides  of  does  and  stags, 
Passed  to  the  crisp  dark  river  flags, 
Sinuous,  red  as  copper,  snakes,  — 
Sharp-headed  serpents,  made  of  light, 
Glided  and  hid  themselves  in  night. 

My  masters  twain  the  slaughtered  deer 
Hung  on  forked  boughs,  with  thongs  of 

leather. 

Bound  were  his  stiff,  slim  feet  together, 
His  eyes  like  dead  stars  cold  and  drear; 
The  wandering  firelight  drew  near 
And  laid  its  wide  palm,  red  and  anxious, 


ISABELLA  VALANCEY   CRAWFORD 


647 


On  the  sharp  splendor  of  his  branches  ; 
On  the  white  foam  grown  hard  and  sere 

On  flank  and  shoulder. 
Death,  hard  as  breast  of  granite  boulder, 

And  under  his  lashes, 

Peered  through  his  eyes  at  his  life's  gray 
ashes. 

My  masters  twain  sang  songs  that  wove 
(As  they  burnished  hunting  blade  and  rifle) 
A  golden  thread  with  a  cobweb  trifle, 
Loud  of  the  chase,  and  low  of  love. 

"  O  Love  !  art  thou  a  silver  fish, 
Shy  of  the  line  and  shy  of  gaffing, 
Which  we  do  follow,  fierce,  yet  laughing, 
Casting  at  thee  the  light-winged  wish  ? 
And  at  the  last  shall  we  bring  thee  up 
From  the  crystal  darkness  under  the  cup 

Of  lily  folden, 

On  broad  leaves  golden  ? 

"  O  Love  !  art  thou  a  silver  deer  ? 
Swift  thy  starred  feet  as  wing  of  swallow, 
While  we  with  rushing  arrows  follow  : 
And  at  the  last  shall  we  draw  near, 
And  over  thy  velvet  neck  cast  thongs, 
Woven  of  roses,  of  stars,  of  songs, 

New  chains  all  moulden 

Of  rare  gems  olden  ?  " 

They  hung  the  slaughtered  fish  like  swords 
On  saplings  slender  ;  like  scimitars 
Bright,  and  ruddied  from  new-dead  wars, 
Blazed  in  the  light  the  scaly  hordes. 

They  piled  up  boughs  beneath  the  trees, 
Of  cedar-web  and  green  fir  tassel ; 
Low  did  the  pointed  pine  tops  rustle, 
The  camp  fire  blushed  to  the  tender  breeze. 

The  hounds  laid  dew-laps  on  the  ground, 
With    needles    of    pine'    sweet,   soft    and 

rusty, 

Dreamed  of  the  dead  stag  stout  and  lusty  ; 
A  bat  by  the  red  flames  wove  its  round. 


The  darkness  built  its  wigwam  walls 
Close  round  the  camp,  and  at  its  curtain 
Pressed  shapes,  thin  woven  and  uncertain, 
As  white  locks  of  tall  waterfalls. 


THE    AXE 

HIGH  grew  the  snow  beneath  the  low-hung 

sky, 

And  all  was  silent  in  the  wilderness  ; 
In  trance  of  stillness  Nature  heard  her  God 
Rebuilding  her  spent  fires,  and  veiled  her 

face 
While  the  Great  Worker  brooded  o'er  His 

work. 

"  Bite  deep  and  wide,  O  Axe,  the  tree  ! 
What  doth  thy  bold  voice  promise  me  ?  " 

"  I  promise  thee  all  joyous  things 
That  furnish  forth  the  lives  of  kings  ! 

"  For  every  silver  ringing  blow, 
.   Cities  and  palaces  shall  grow  !  " 

"  Bite  deep  and  wide,  O  Axe,  the  tree  ! 
Tell  wider  prophecies  to  me." 

"  When  rust  hath  gnawed  me  deep  and 

red, 
A  nation  strong  shall  lift  his  head. 

"His    crown    the   very   Heavens    shall 

smite, 
.<Eons  shall  build  him  in  his  might !  " 

"  Bite  deep  and  wide,  O  Axe,  the  tree  ; 
Bright  Seer,  help  on  thy  prophecy  !  " 

Max   smote   the   snow-weighed  tree,   and 

lightly  laughed. 
"  See,  friend,"  he  cried  to  one  that  looked 

and  smiled, 

"  My  axe  and  I  —  we  do  immortal  tasks  — 
We  build  up  nations  —  this  my  axe  and  I !  " 


643 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


IDiHiam  SDouto 

THE  CONFUSED   DAWN 

WHAT  are  the  Vision  and  the  Cry 
That  haunt  the  new  Canadian  soul  ? 

Dim  grandeur  spreads  we  know  not  why 
O'er  mountain,  forest,  tree  and  knoll, 

And  murmurs  indistinctly  fly. 

Some  magic  moment  sure  is  nigh. 
0  Seer,  the  curtain  roll  ! 

The  Vision,  mortal,  it  is  this  : 

Dead  mountain,  forest,  knoll  and  tree, 
Awaken  all  endued  with  bliss, 

A  native  land  —  O  think  !  to  be 
Thy  native  land  !  and,  ne'er  amiss, 
Its  smile  shall  like  a  lover's  kiss 

From  henceforth  seem  to  thee. 

The  Cry  thou  couldst  not  understand, 
Which  runs  through  that  new  realm  of 
light, 

From  Breton's  to  Vancouver's  strand 
O'er  many  a  lovely  landscape  bright, 

It  is  their  waking  utterance  grand, 

The  great  refrain  "  A  Native  Land  1 " 
Thine  be  the  ear,  the  sight. 


PR^TERITA  EX   INSTANTIBUS 

How  strange  it  is  that,  in  the  after  age,  — 
When  Time's  clepsydra  will  be  nearer  dry, 
That  all  the  accustomed  things  we  now 

pass  by 

Unmarked,  because  familiar,  shall  engage 
The  antique  reverence  of  men  to  be  ; 
And  that  quaint  interest  which  prompts  the 

sage 

The  silent  fathoms  of  the  past  to  gauge 
Shall  keep  alive  our  own  past  memory, 
Making  all  great  of  ours,  the  garb  we 

wear, 

Our  voiceless  cities,  reft  of  roof  and  spire, 
The  very  skull  whence  now  the  eye  of 

fire 
Glances  bright  sign  of  what  the  soul  can 

dare. 

So  shall  our  annals  make  an  envied  lore, 
'And  men  will  say,  "Thus  did  the  men  of 

yore." 


THE   BATTLE  OF    LA   PRAIRIE 
1691 

THAT  was  a  brave  old  epoch, 

Our  age  of  chivalry, 
When   the    Briton   met    the   French- 
man 

At  the  fight  of  La  Prairie  ; 
And  the  manhood  of  New  England, 

And  the  Netherlanders  true 
And  Mohawks  sworn,  gave  battle 

To  the  Bourbon's  lilied  blue. 

That  was  a  brave  old  governor 

Who  gathered  his  array, 
And  stood  to  meet,  he  knew  not  what, 

On  that  alarming  day. 
Eight  hundred,  amid  rumors  vast 

That  filled  the  wild  wood's  gloom, 
With    all    New   England's    flower  of 
youth, 

Fierce  for  New  France's  doom. 

And  the  brave  old  half  five  hundred  1 

Theirs  should  in  truth  be  fame  ; 
Borne  down  the  savage  Richelieu, 

On  what  emprise  they  came  ! 
Your  hearts  are  great  enough,  O  few : 

Only  your  numbers  fail,  — 
New  France  asks  more  for  conquerors 

All  glorious  though  your  tale. 

It  was  a  brave  old  battle 

That  surged  around  the  fort, 
When  D'Hosta  fell  in  charging, 

And  't  was  deadly  strife  and  short  ; 
When  in  the  very  quarters 

They  contested  face  and  hand, 
And  many  a  goodly  fellow 

Crimsoned  yon  La  Prairie  sand. 

And  those  were  brave  old  orders 

The  colonel  gave  to  meet 
That  forest  force  with  trees  entrenched 

Opposing  the  retreat : 
"  De  Calliere's  strength 's  behind  us, 

And  in  front  your  Richelieu  ; 
We  must  go  straightforth  at  them  ; 

There  is  nothing  else  to  do." 


CHARLES   G.   D.   ROBERTS 


649 


And  then  the  brave  old  story  comes, 

Of  Schuyler  and  Valrennes, 
When  "  Fight "  the  British  colonel  called, 

Encouraging  his  men, 
"  For  the  Protestant  Religion 

And  the  honor  of  our  King  !  "  — 
"  Sir,  I  am  here  to  answer  you  !  " 

Valrennes  cried,  forthstepping. 

Were  those  not  brave  old  races  ? 

Well,  here  they  still  abide  ; 
And  yours  is  one  or  other, 

And  the  second  's  at  your  side  ; 
So  when  you  hear  your  brother  say, 

"  Some  loyal  deed  I  '11  do," 
Like  old  Valrennes,  be  ready  with 

"  I  'm  here  to  answer  you  ! " 


MONTREAL 

REIGN  on,  majestic  Ville  Marie  ! 

Spread  wide  thine  ample  robes  of  state  ; 

The  heralds  cry  that  thou  art  great, 
And  proud  are  thy  young  sons  of  thee. 
Mistress  of  half  a  continent, 

Thou  risest  from  thy  girlhood's  rest ; 

We  see  thee  conscious  heave  thy  breast 
And  feel  thy  rank  and  thy  descent. 

Sprung  of  the  saint  and  chevalier  ! 

And  with  the  Scarlet  Tunic  wed  ! 

Mount  Royal's  crown  upon  thy  head, 
And,  past  thy  footstool,  broad  and  clear 

St.  Lawrence  sweeping  to  the  sea  ; 

Reign  on,  majestic  Ville  Marie  ! 


CANADA 

0  CHILD  of  Nations,  giant-limbed, 
Who  stand'st  among  the  nations  now, 

Unheeded,  unadored,  unhymned, 
With  unanointed  brow  : 

How  long  the  ignoble  sloth,  how  long 
The  trust  in  greatness  not  thine  own  ? 

Surely  the  lion's  brood  is  strong 
To  front  the  world  alone  1 

How  long  the  indolence,  ere  thou  dare 
Achieve  thy  destiny,  seize  thy  fame ; 

Ere  our  proud  eyes  behold  thee  bear 
A  nation's  franchise,  nation's  name  ? 

The  Saxon  force,  the  Celtic  fire, 
These  are  thy  manhood's  heritage  ! 

Why  rest  with  babes  and   slaves  ?     Seek 

higher 
The  place  of  race  and  age. 

1  see  to  every  wind  unfurled 

The  flag  that  bears  the  Maple- Wreath  ; 
Thy  swift  keels  furrow  round  the  world 
Its  blood-red  folds  beneath  ; 

Thy  swift  keels  cleave  the  furthest  seas  ; 

Thy  white  sails  swell  with  alien  gales  ; 
To  stream  on  each  remotest  breeze 

The  black  smoke  of  thy  pipes  exhales. 


O  Falterer,  let  thy  past  convince 

Thy    future :    all    the    growth,    the 
gain, 

The  fame  since  Cartier  knew  thee,  since 
Thy  shores  beheld  Champlain  ! 

Montcalm  and  Wolfe  !     Wolfe  and  Mont- 
caliu  ! 

Quebec,  thy  storied  citadel 
Attest  in  burning  song  and  psalm 

How  here  thy  heroes  fell ! 

O  Thou  that  bor'st  the  battle's  brunt 
At  Queenston,  and  at  Lundy's  Lane  : 

On  whose  scant  ranks  but  iron  front 
The  battle  broke  in  vain  1 

Whose  was  the  danger,  whose  the  day, 
From  whose    triumphant    throats  the 
cheers, 

At  Chrysler's  Farm,  at  C  bateau guay, 
Storming  like  clarion-bursts  our  ears  ? 

On  soft  Pacific  slopes,  —  beside 

Strange  floods  that  northward  rave  and 
fall,— 

Where  chafes  Acadia's  chainless  tide,  — 
Thy  sons  await  thy  call. 

They  wait ;  but  some  in  exile,  some 
With   strangers    housed,    in   stranger 
lands  ; 


650 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


And  some  Canadian  lips  are  dumb 
Beneath  Egyptian  sands. 

O  mystic  Nile  !  Thy  secret  yields 
Before  us  ;  thy  most  ancient  dreams 

Are  mixed  with  far  Canadian  fields 
And  murmur  of  Canadian  streams. 

But  thou,  my  Country,  dream  not  thou  ! 

Wake,  and  behold  how  night  is  done,  - 
How  on  thy  breast,  and  o'er  thy  brow, 

Bursts  the  uprising  sun  ! 


THE    ISLES 

FAITHFUL  reports  of  them  have  reached 

me  oft ! 

Many  their  embassage  to  mortal  court, 
By  golden  pomp,  and  breathless-heard 

consort 

Of  music  soft,  — 

By  fragrances  accredited,  and  dreams. 
Many  their  speeding  heralds,  whose  light 

feet 
Make  pause  at  wayside  brooks,  and  fords 

of  streams, 
Leaving    transfigured    by   an   effluence 

fleet 
Those  wayfarers  they  meet. 

No  wind  from  out  the  solemn  wells  of  night 
But  hath  its  burden  of  strange  messages, 
Tormenting  for  interpreter  ;  nor  less 

The  wizard  light 
That  steals  from  noon-stilled  waters,  woven 

in  shade, 
Beckons  somewhither,  with  cool  fingers 

slim. 

No  dawn  but  hath  some  subtle  word  con- 
veyed 

In  rose  ineffable  at  sunrise  rim, 
Or  charactery  dim. 

One  moment  throbs  the  hearing,  yearns  the 

sight.  • 

But   though  not  far,  yet  strangely  hid, 

the  way, 
And  our  sense   slow  ;  nor  long  for  us 

delay 

The  guides  their  flight  ! 
The  breath  goes  by  ;  the  word,  the  light, 

elude  ; 

And  we  stay  wondering.   But  there  comes 
an  hour 


Of  fitness  perfect  and  unfettered  mood, 
When  splits  her  husk  the  finer  sense  with 

power, 
And  —  yon  their  palm-trees  tower  ! 

Here  Homer  came,  and  Milton  came,  though 

blind. 
Omar's  deep  doubts  still  found  them  nigh 

and  nigher, 
And  learned  them  fashioned  to  the  heart's 

desire. 

The  supreme  mind 
Of  Shakespeare  took  their  sovereignty,  and 

smiled. 
Those    passionate    Israelitish    lips    that 

poured 
The  Song  of  Songs  attained  them  ;  and  the 

wild 
Child-heart  of  Shelley,  here  from  strife 

restored, 
Remembers  not  life's  sword. 


BURNT   LANDS 

ON  other  fields  and  other  scenes  the  morn 
Laughs   from   her   blue,  —  but   not   such 

scenes  are  these, 
Where  comes  no  cheer  of  Summer  leaves 

and  bees, 
And  no  shade  mitigates  the   day's  white 

scorn. 

These  serious  acres  vast  no  groves  adorn  ; 
But  giant  trunks,  bleak  shapes  that  once 

were  trees, 

Tower  naked,  unassuaged  of  rain  or  breeze, 
Their  stern  gray  isplation  grimly  borne. 
The  months  roll  over  them,  and  mark  no 

change  ; 
But  when  spring  stirs,  or  autumn  stills,  the 

year, 
Perchance  some  phantom  leafage   rustles 

faint 

Through  their  parched  dreams,  —  some  old- 
time  notes  ring  strange, 
When  in  his  slender  treble,  far  and  clear, 
Reiterates  the  rain-bird  his  complaint. 


THE   FLIGHT  OF   THE   GEESE 

I  HEAR   the   low  wind  wash  the  softening 

snow, 
The  low  tide  loiter  down  the  shore.     The 

night, 


CHARLES   G.    D.   ROBERTS 


651 


Full  filled  with  April  forecast,  hath  no 
light. 

The  salt  wave  on  the  sedge-flat  pulses  slow. 

Through  the  hid  furrows  lisp  in  murmurous 
flow 

The  thaw's  shy  ministers  ;  and  hark  !  The 
height 

Of  heaven  grows  weird  and  loud  with  un- 
seen flight 

Of  strong  hosts  prophesying  as  they  go  ! 

High  through  the  drenched  and  hollow 
night  their  wings 

Beat  northward  hard  on  winter's  trail. 
The  sound 

Of  their  confused  and  solemn  voices,  borne 

Athwart  the  dark  to  their  long  arctic  morn, 

Comes  with  a  sanction  and  an  awe  pro- 
found, 

A  boding  of  unknown,  foreshadowed  things. 

THE   NIGHT   SKY 

O  DEEP  of  Heaven,  'tis  thou  alone  art 
boundless, 

'T  is  thou  alone  our  balance  shall  not  weigh, 

'T  is  thou  alone  our  fathom-line  finds  sound- 
less, — 

Whose  infinite  our  finite  must  obey  ! 

Through  thy  blue  realms  and  down  thy 
starry  reaches 

Thought  voyages  forth  beyond  thy  furthest 
fire, 

And  homing  from  no  sighted  shoreline, 
teaches 

Thee  measureless  as  is  the  soul's  desire. 

O  deep  of  Heaven  !  No  beam  of  Pleiad 
ranging 

Eternity  may  bridge  thy  gulf  of  spheres  ! 

The  ceaseless  hum  that  fills  thy  sleep  un- 
changing 

Is  rain  of  the  innumerable  years. 

Our  worlds,  our  suns,  our  ages,  —  these 
but  stream 

Through  thine  abiding  like  a  dateless 
dream. 

THE    DESERTED    CITY 

THERE  lies  a  little  city  leagues  away. 

Its  wharves  the  green  sea  washes  all  day 

long. 
Its  busy,  sun-bright  wharves  with  sailors' 

song 
And  clamor  of  trade  ring  loud  the  live-long 

day. 


Into  the  happy  harbor  hastening,  gay 
With   press   of   snowy   canvas,   tall   ships 

throng. 
The  peopled  streets  to  blithe-eyed  Peace 

belong, 
Glad  housed  beneath  these  crowding  roofs 

of  gray. 

'T  was  long  ago  this  city  prospered  so, 
For  yesterday  a  woman  died  therein. 
Since  when  the  wharves  are  idle  fallen,  I 

know, 
And  in  the  streets  is  hushed  the  pleasant 

din  ; 
The  thronging  ships  have  been,  the  songs 

have  been  ;  — 
Since  yesterday  it  is  so  long  ago. 

AUTOCHTHON 

I  AM  the  spirit  astir 

To  swell  the  grain, 
When  fruitful  suns  confer 

With  laboring  rain  ; 
I  am  the  life  that  thrills 

In  branch  and  bloom  ; ' 
I  am  the  patience  of  abiding  hills, 

The  promise  masked  in  doom. 

When  the  sombre  lands  are  wrung, 

And  storms  are  out, 
And  giant  woods  give  tongue, 

I  am  the  shout  ; 
And  when  the  earth  would  sleep, 

Wrapped  in  her  snows, 
I  am  the  infinite  gleam  of  eyes  that  keep 

The  post  of  her  repose. 

I  am  the  hush  of  calm, 

I  am  the  speed, 
The  flood-tide's  triumphing  psalm, 

The  marsh-pool's  heed  ; 
I  work  in  the  rocking  roar 

Where  cataracts  fall  ; 
I  flash  in  the  prismy  fire  that  dances  o'er 

The  dew's  ephemeral  ball. 

I  am  the  voice  of  wind 
And  wave  and  tree, 
Of  stern  desires  and  blind, 

Of  strength  to  be  ; 
I  am  the  cry  by  night 

At  point  of  dawn, 
The  summoning  bugle   from  the   unseen 

height, 
In  cloud  and  doubt  withdrawn. 


652 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


I  am  the  strife  that  shapes 

The  stature  of  man, 
The  pang  no  hero  escapes, 

The  blessing,  the  ban  ; 
I  am  the  hammer  that  moulds 

The  iron  of  our  race, 
The  omen  of  God  in  our  blood  that  a  people 

beholds, 
The  foreknowledge  veiled  in  our  face. 


MARSYAS 

A  LITTLE  gray  hill-glade,  close-turfed,  with- 
drawn 

Beyond  resort  or  heed  of  trafficking  feet, 
Ringed  round  with  slim  trunks  of  the  moun- 
tain ash. 
Through    the    slim    trunks     and     scarlet 

bunches  flash  — 
Beneath  the  clear  chill  glitterings  of  the 

dawn  — 
Far  off,  the  crests,  where  down  the  rosy 

shore 

The  Pontic  surges  beat. 
The  plains  lie  dim  below.     The  thin  airs 

wash 

The  circuit  of  the  autumn-colored  hills, 
And  this  high  glade,  whereon 
The   satyr  pipes,  who  soon  shall   pipe  no 

more. 
He   sits   against  the   beech-tree's   mighty 

bole,  — 

He  leans,  and  with  persuasive  breathing  fills 
The  happy  shadows  of  the  slant-set  lawn. 
The  goat-feet  fold  beneath  a  gnarled  root ; 
And  sweet,  and  sweet  the  note  that  steals 

and  thrills 

From  slender  stops  of  that  shy  flute. 
Then  to  the  goat-feet  comes  the  wide-eyed 

fawn 
Hearkening  ;  the  rabbits  fringe  the  glade, 

and  lay 

Their  long  ears  to  the  sound  ; 
In  the  pale   boughs  the   partridge  gather 

round, 
And  quaint  hern  from  the  sea-green  river 

reeds  ; 

The  wild  ram  halts  upon  a  rocky  horn 
O'erhanging  ;  and,  unmindful  of  his  prey, 
The  leopard  steals  with  narrowed  lids  to 

lay 

His  spotted  length  along  the  ground. 
The  thin  airs  wash,  the  thin  clouds  wander 

by, 


And  those  hushed  listeners  move  not.     All 

the  morn 
He  pipes,  soft-swaying,  and  with  half-shut 

eye, 
In  rapt  content  of  utterance,  — 

nor  heeds 
The  young  God   standing  in  his   branchy 

place, 

The  languor  on  his  lips,  and  in  his  face, 
Divinely  inaccessible,  the  scorn. 


HE  who  but  yesterday  would  roam 
Careless  as  clouds  and  currents  range, 

In  homeless  wandering  most  at  home, 
Inhabiter  of  change  ; 

Who  wooed  the  west  to  win  the  east, 
And  named  the  stars  of  north  and  south, 

And  felt  the  zest  of  Freedom's  feast 
Familiar  in  his  mouth  ; 

Who  found  a  faith  in  stranger  speech, 
And  fellowship  in  foreign  hands, 

And  had  within  his  eager  reach 
The  relish  of  all  lands  — 

How  circumscribed  a  plot  of  earth 
Keeps  now  his  restless  footsteps  still, 

Whose  wish  was  wide  as  ocean's  girth, 
Whose  will  the  water's  will ! 


THE    KEEPERS    OF   THE   PASS 

(WHEN  ADAM  DULAC  AND  HIS  COMRADES, 
SWORN  NOT  TO  RETURN  ALIVE,  SAVED  MONT. 
REAL  FROM  THE  IROQUOIS) 

Now  heap  the  branchy  barriers  up. 

No  more  for  us  shall  burn 
The  pine-logs  on  the  happy  hearth, 

For  we  shall  not  return. 

We  've  come  to  our  last  camping-ground, 

Set  axe  to  fir  and  tamarack. 
The  foe  is  here,  the  end  is  near, 

And  we  shall  not  turn  back. 

In  vain  for  us  the  town  shall  wait, 

The  home-dear  faces  yearn, 
The  watchers  on  the  steeple  watch,  — 

For  we  shall  not  return. 


CHARLES   G.  D.  ROBERTS 


653 


For  them  we  're  come  to  these  hard  straits, 
To  save  from  flame  and  wrack 

The  little  city  built  far  off  ; 
Aiid  we  shall  not  turn  back. 

Now  beat  the  yelling  butchers  down. 

Let  musket  blaze,  and  axe-edge  burn. 
Set  hand  to  hand,  lay  brand  to  brand, 

But  we  shall  not  return. 

For  every  man  of  us  that  falls 
Their  hordes  a  score  shall  lack. 

Close  in  about  the  Lily  Flag  ! 
No  man  of  us  goes  back. 

For  us  no  morrow's  dawn  shall  break. 

Our  sons  and  wives  shall  learn 
Some  day  from  lips  of  flying  scout 

Why  we  might  not  return. 

A  dream  of  children's  laughter  comes 

Across  the 'battle's  slack, 
A  vision  of  familiar  streets,  — 

But  we  shall  not  go  back. 

Up  roars  the  painted  storm  once  more. 

Long  rest  we  soon  shall  earn. 
Henceforth  the  city  safe  may  sleep, 

But  we  shall  not  return. 

And  when  our  last  has  fallen  in  blood 

Between  these  waters  black, 
Their  tribe  shall  no  more  lust  for  war,  — 

For  we  shall  not  turn  back. 

In  vain  for  us  the  town  shall  wait, 

The  home-dear  faces  yearn, 
The  watchers  in  the  steeple  watch, 

For  we  shall  not  return. 


THE     BIRD'S    SONG,    THE     SUN, 
AND    THE    WIND 

THE  bird's  song,  the  sun,  and  the  wind  — 
The  wind   that  rushes,  the  sun  that  is 
still, 

The  song  of  the  bird  that  sings  alone, 
And  wide  light  washing  the  lonely  hill ! 

The    Spring's  coming,  the   buds   and   the 

brooks  — 

The  brooks  that  clamor,  the  buds  in  the 
rain, 


The  coming  of  Spring  that  comes  unprayed 

for, 
And  eyes  that  welcome  it  not  for  pain  ! 


AFOOT 

COMES  the  lure  of  green  things  growing, 
Comes  the  call  of  waters  flowing  — 

And  the  wayfarer  desire 
Moves  and  wakes  and  would  be  going. 

Hark  the  migrant  hosts  of  June 
Marching  nearer  noon  by  noon  ! 

Hark  the  gossip  of  the  grasses 
Bivouacked  beneath  the  moon  ! 

Long  the  quest  and  far  the  ending 
When  my  wayfarer  is  wending  — 

When  desire  is  once  afoot, 
Doom  behind  and  dream  attending  ! 

In  his  ears  the  phantom  chime 
Of  incommunicable  rhyme, 

He  shall  chase  the  fleeting  camp-fires 
Of  the  Bedouins  of  Time. 

Farer  by  uncharted  ways, 

Dumb  as  death  to  plaint  or  praise, 

Uureturning  he  shall  journey, 
Fellow  to  the  nights  and  days  ; 

Till  upon  the  outer  bar 

Stilled  the  moaning  currents  are, 

Till  the  flame  achieves  the  zenith, 
Till  the  moth  attains  the  star, 

Till  through  laughter  and  through  tears 
Fair  the  final  peace  appears, 

And  about  the  watered  pastures 
Sink  to  sleep  the  nomad  years  ! 


DOMINE,   GUI    SUNT 
PLEIADES    CURAE 

FATHER,  who  keepest 

The  stars  in  Thy  care, 
Me,  too,  Thy  little  one, 

Childish  in  prayer, 
Keep,  as  Thou  keepest 

The  soft  night  through 
Thy  long,  white  lilies 

Asleep  in  Thy  dew. 


654 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


William 


TO   THE    LAKES 

WITH  purple  glow  at  even, 

With  crimson  waves  at  dawn, 
Cool  bending  blue  of  heaven, 

O  blue  lakes  pulsing  on  ; 
Lone  haunts  of  wilding  creatures  dead  to 

wrong  ; 

Your  trance  of  mystic  beauty 
Is  wove  into  iny  song. 

I  know  no  gladder  dreaming 

In  all  the  haunts  of  men, 
I  know  no  silent  seeming 

Like  to  your  shore  and  fen  ; 
No  world  of  restful  beauty  like  your  world 

Of  curved  shores  and  waters, 

In  sunlight  vapors  furled. 

I  pass  and  repass  under 

Your  depths  of  peaceful  blue  ; 
You  dream  your  wild,  hushed  wonder 

Mine  aching  heart  into  ; 
And  all  the  care  and  unrest  pass  away 

Like  night's  gray,  haunted  shadows 

At  the  red  birth  of  day. 

You  lie  in  moon-white  splendor 

Beneath  the  northern  sky, 
Your  voices  soft  and  tender 

In  dream-worlds  fade  and  die, 
In  whispering  beaches,  haunted  bays  and 

capes, 

Where  mists  of  dawn  and  midnight 
Drift  past  in  spectral  shapes. 

Beside  your  far  north  beaches 

Comes  late  the  quickening  spring  ; 
With  soft,  voluptuous  speeches 

The  summer,  lingering, 
Fans  with  hot  winds  your  breast  so  still 

and  wide, 

Where  June,  with  tranced  silence, 
Drifts  over  shore  and  tide. 

Beneath  great  crags  the  larches, 

By  some  lone,  northern  bay, 
Bend,  as  the  strong  wind  marches 

Out  of  the  dull,  north  day, 
Horning  along  the  borders  of  the  night, 

With  iced,  chopping  waters 

Out  in  the  shivering  light. 


Here  the  white  winter's  fingers 
Tip  with  dull  fires  the  dawn, 

Where  the  pale  morning  lingers 

By  stretches  bleak  and  wan  ; 
Kindling  the  iced  capes  with  heatless  glow. 
That  renders  cold  and  colder 
Lone  waters,  rocks  and  snow. 

Here  in  the  glad  September, 

When  all  the  woods  are  red 
And  gold,  and  hearts  remember 

The  long  days  that  are  dead  ; 
And  all  the  world  is  mantled  in  a  haze  ; 

And  the  wind,  a  mad  musician, 

Melodious  makes  the  days  ; 

And  the  nights  are  still,  and  slumber 

Holds  all  the  frosty  ground, 
And  the  white  stars  whose  number 
In  God's  great  books  are  found, 
Gird  with  pale  flames  the  spangled,  frosty 

sky; 

By  white,  moon-curved  beaches 
The  haunted  hours  go  by. 


A   CANADIAN   FOLK-SONG 

THE  doors  are  shut,  the  windows  fast, 
Outside  the  gust  is  driving  past, 
Outside  the  shivering  ivy  clings, 
While  on  the  hob  the  kettle  sings. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The   streams   are  hushed  up   where  they 

flowed, 

The  ponds  are  frozen  along  the  road, 
The  cattle  are  housed  in  shed  and  byre, 
While  singeth  the  kettle  on  the  fire. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  fisherman  on  the  bay  in  his  boat 
Shivers  and  buttons  up  his  coat  ; 
The  traveller  stops  at  the  tavern  door, 
And  the  kettle  answers  the  chimney's  roar. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 

Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

The  firelight  dances  upon  the  wall, 
Footsteps  are  heard  in  the  outer  hall, 


655 


And  a  kiss   and  a  welcome   that   fill  the 

room, 
And  the  kettle  sings  in  the  glimmer  and 

gloom. 

Margery,  Margery,  make  the  tea, 
Singeth  the  kettle  merrily. 

A  LAKE  MEMORY 

THE  lake  comes  throbbing  in  with  voice  of 

pain 
Across  these  flats,  athwart  the  sunset's 

glow, 

I  see  her  face,  I  know  her  voice  again, 
Her  lips,  her  breath,  O  God,  as  long  ago. 

To  live  the  sweet  past  over  I  would  fain, 

As  lives  the  day  in  the  red  sunset's  fire, 
That  all  these  wild,  wan  marshlands  now 

would  stain, 

With   the   dawn's  memories,  loves   and 
flushed  desire. 

I  call  her  back  across  the  vanished  years, 
Nor  vain  —  a  white-armed  phantom  fills 

her  place  ; 

Its  eyes  the  wind-blown  sunset  fires,  its  tears 
This  rain  of  spray  that  blows  about  my 
face. 

THE   WERE-WOLVES 

THEY  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

From  the  even  to  the  dawn  ; 
And  their  tired  eyes  gleam  and  glisten 

Under  north  skies  white  and  wan. 
Each  pauter  in  the  darkness 

Is  a  demon-haunted  soul, 
The  shadowy,  phantom  were-wolves, 

Who  circle  round  the  Pole. 

Their  tongues  are  crimson  flaming, 

Their  haunted  blue  eyes  gleam, 
And  they  strain  them  to  the  utmost 

O'er  frozen  lake  and  stream  ; 
Their  cry  one  note  of  agony, 

That  is  neither  yelp  nor  bark, 
These  panters  of  the  northern  waste, 

Who  hound  them  to  the  dark. 

You  may  hear  their  hurried  breathing, 
You  may  see  their  fleeting  forms, 

At  the  pallid  polar  midnight 

When  the  north  is  gathering  storms  ; 

When  the  arctic  frosts  are  flaming, 
And  the  ice-field  thunders  roll ; 


These  demon-haunted  were-wolves, 
Who  circle  round  the  Pole. 

They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

Across  the  northern  night, 
Filled  with  a  frighted  madness, 

A  horror  of  the  light ; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Like  leaves  before  the  wind, 
They  leave  the  wan,  white  gleaming 

Of  the  dawning  far  behind. 

Their  only  peace  is  darkness, 

Their  rest  to  hasten  on 
Into  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Forever  from  the  dawn. 
Across  far  phantom  ice-floes 

The  eye  of  night  may  mark 
These  horror-haunted  were-wolves 

Who  hound  them  to  the  dark. 

All  through  this  hideous  journey, 

They  are  the  souls  of  men 
Who  in  the  far  dark-ages 

Made  Europe  one  black  fen. 
They  fled  from  courts  and  convents, 

And  bound  their  mortal  dust 
With  demon  wolfish  girdles 

Of  human  hate  and  lust. 

These  who  could  have  been  god-like, 

Chose,  each  a  loathsome  beast, 
Amid  the  heart's  foul  graveyards, 

On  putrid  thoughts  to  feast  ; 
But  the  great  God  who  made  them 

Gave  each  a  human  soul, 
And  so  'mid  night  forever 

They  circle  round  the  Pole ; 

A  praying  for  the  blackness, 

A  longing  for  the  night, 
For  each  is  doomed  forever 

By  a  horror  of  the  light  ; 
And  far  in  the  heart  of  midnight, 

Where  their  shadowy  flight  is  hurled, 
They  feel  with  pain  the  dawning 

That  creeps  in  round  the  world. 

Under  the  northern  midnight, 

The  white,  glint  ice  upon, 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten, 

With  their  horror  of  the  dawn  ; 
Forever  and  forever, 

Into  the  night  away 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten 

Unto  the  judgment  day. 


6S6 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


f  refcericfc  George  £cott 


KNOWLEDGE 

THEY  were  islanders,  our  fathers  were, 

And  they  watched  the  encircling  seas, 
And  their  hearts  drank  in  the  ceaseless  stir, 

And  the  freedom  of  the  breeze  ; 
Till  they  chafed  at  their  narrow  bounds 

And  longed  for  the  sweep  of  the  main, 
And  they  fretted  and  fumed  like  hounds 

Held  in  within  sight  of  the  plain, 
And  the  play 
And  the  prey. 

So  they  built  them  ships  of  wood,  and  sailed 

To  many  an  unknown  coast ; 
They  braved  the  storm  and  battles  hailed, 

And  danger  they  loved  most ; 
Till  the  tiny  ships  of  wood 

Grew  powerful  on  the  globe, 
And  the  new-found  lands  for  good 

They  wrapped  in  a  wondrous  robe 
Of  bold  design, 
Our  brave  ensign. 

And  islanders  yet  in  a  way  are  we, 

Our  knowledge  is  still  confined, 
And  we  hear  the  roar  of  encircling  sea, 

To  be  crossed  in  the  ship  of  the  mind  ; 
And  we  dream  of  lands  afar, 

Unknown,  unconquered  yet, 
And  we  chafe  at  the  bounds  there  are, 

And  our  spirits  fume  and  fret 
For  the  prize 
Of  the  wise. 

But  we  '11  never  do  aught,  I  know,  unless 

We  are  brave  as  our  sires  of  old, 
And  face  like  them  the  bitterness 

Of  the  battle  and  storm  and  cold  ; 
Unless  we  boldly  stand, 

When  men  would  hold  us  back, 
With  the  helm-board  in  our  hand, 

And  our  eyes  to  the  shining  track 
Of  what  may  be 
Beyond  the  sea. 

There  are  rocks  out  there  in  that  wide,  wide 

sea, 

'Neath  many  a  darkling  stream, 
And  souls    that  once   sailed  out  bold  and 

free 
Have  been  carried  away  in  a  dream  ; 


For  they  never  came  back  again  — 
On  the  deep  the  ships  were  lost ; 
But  in  spite  of  the  danger  and  pain, 
The  ocean  has  still  to  be  crossed, 
And  only  they  do 
Who  are  brave  and  true. 


TIME 

I  SAW  Time  in  his  workshop  carving  faces  ; 

Scattered  around  his  tools  lay,  blunting 
griefs, 

Sharp  cares  that  cut  out  deeply  in  reliefs 

Of  light  and  shade  ;  sorrows  that  smooth 
the  traces 

Of  what  were  smiles.  Nor  yet  without  fresh 
graces 

His  handiwork,  for  ofttimes  rough  were 
ground 

And  polished,  oft  the  pinched  made  smooth 
and  round  ; 

The  calm  look,  too,  the  impetuous  fire  re- 
places. 

Long  time  I  stood  and  watched  ;  with  hid- 
eous grin 

He  took  each  heedless  face  between  his 
knees, 

And  graved  and  scarred  and  bleached  with 
boiling  tears. 

I  wondering  turned  to  go,  when,  lo  !  my 
skin 

Feels  crumpled,  and  in  glass  my  own  face 
sees 

Itself  all  changed,  scarred,  careworn,  white 
with  years. 


SAMSON 

PLUNGED  in  night,  I  sit  alone 
Eyeless  on  this  dungeon  stone, 
Naked,  shaggy  and  unkempt, 
Dreaming  dreams  no  soul  hath  dreamt. 

Rats  and  vermin  round  my  feet 
Play  unharmed,  companions  sweet, 
Spiders  weave  me  overhead 
Silken  curtains  for  my  bed. 

Day  by  day  the  mould  I  smell 
Of  this  fungus-blistered  cell  j 


FREDERICK  GEORGE   SCOTT 


657 


Nightly  in  my  haunted  sleep 
O'er  my  face  the  lizards  creep. 

Gyves  of  iron  scrape  and  burn 
Wrists  and  ankles  when  I  turn, 
And  my  collared  neck  is  raw 
With  the  teeth  of  brass  that  gnaw. 

God  of  Israel,  canst  Thou  see 
All  my  fierce  captivity  ? 
Do  thy  sinews  feel  my  pains  ? 
Hearest  Thou  the  clanking  chains  ? 

Thou  who  madest  me  so  fair, 
Strong  and  buoyant  as  the  air, 
Tall  and  noble  as  a  tree, 
With  the  passions  of  the  sea, 

Swift  as  horse  upon  my  feet,     . 
Fierce  as  lion  in  my  heat, 
Rending,  like  a  wisp  of  hay, 
All  that  dared  withstand  my  way, 

Canst  Thou  see  me  through  the  gloom 
Of  this  subterranean  tomb,  — 
Blinded  tiger  in  his  den, 
Once  the  lord  and  prince  of  men  ? 

Clay  was  I  ;  the  potter  Thou 
With  Thy  thumb-nail  smooth'dst  my  brow, 
Roll'dst  the  spital-moistenecl  sands 
Into  limbs  between  Thy  hands. 

Thou  didst  pour  into  my  blood 
Fury  of  the  fire  and  flood, 
And  upon  the  boundless  skies 
Thou  didst  first  unclose  my  eyes. 

And  my  breatti  of  life  was  flame  ; 
God-like  from  the  source  it  came, 
Whirling  round  like  furious  wind 
Thoughts  upgathered  in  the  mind. 

Strong  Thou  mad'st  me,  till  at  length 
All  my  weakness  was  my  strength  ; 
Tortured  am  I,  blind  and  wrecked, 
For  a  faulty  architect. 

From  the  woman  at  my  side, 
Was  I  woman-like  to  liide 
What  she  asked  me,  as  if  fear 
Could  my  iron  heart  come  near  ? 

Nay,  I  scorned  and  scorn  again 
Cowards  who  their  tongues  restrain  ; 


Cared  I  no  more  for  Thy  laws 
Than  a  wind  of  scattered  straws. 

When  the  earth  quaked  at  my  name 
And  my  blood  was  all  aflame, 
Who  was  I  to  lie,  and  cheat 
Her  who  clung  about  my  feet  ? 

From  Thy  open  nostrils  blow 
Wind  and  tempest,  rain  and  snow  ; 
Dost  Thou  curse  them  on  their  course9 
For  the  fury  of  their  force  ? 

Tortured  am  I,  wracked  and  bowed, 
But  the  soul  within  is  proud  ; 
Dungeon  fetters  cannot  still 
Forces  of  the  tameless  will. 

Israel's  God,  come  down  and  see 
All  my,fierce  captivity  ; 
Let  Thy  sinews  feel  my  pains, 
With  Thy  fingers  lift  my  chains. 

Then,  with  thunder  loud  and  wild, 
Comfort  Thou  Thy  rebel  child, 
And  with  lightning  split  in  twain 
Loveless  heart  and  sightless  brain. 

Give  me  splendor  in  my  death  — 
Not  this  sickening  dungeon  breath, 
Creeping  down  my  blood  like  slime, 
Till  it  wastes  me  in  my  prime. 

Give  me  back,  for  one  blind  hour, 
Half  my  former  rage  and  power, 
And  some  giant  crisis  send 
Meet  to  prove  a  hero's  end. 

Then,  O  God,  Thy  mercy  show  — 
Crush  him  in  the  overthrow 
At  whose  life  they  scorn  and  point, 
By  its  greatness  out  of  joint. 


VAN   ELSEN 

GOD   spake   three    times   and   saved  Van 

Elsen's  soul  ; 
He  spake  by  sickness  first  and  made  him 

whole ; 

Van  Elsen  heard  him  not, 
Or  soon  forgot. 

God  spake  to  him  by  wealth,  the  world  out' 
poured 


658 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


Its   treasures  at  his   feet,  and  called  him 

Lord  ; 

Van  Elsen's  heart  grew  fat 
And  proud  thereat. 

God  spake  the  third  time  when  the  great 

world  smiled, 
And  in  the  sunshine  slew  his  little  child  ; 

Van  Elsen  like  a  tree 

Fell  hopelessly. 

Then  in  the  darkness  came  a  voice  which 

said, 
"  As  thy  heart  bleedeth,  so  my  heart  hath 

bled, 

As  I  have  need  of  thee, 
Thou  needest  me." 


That  night  Van   Elsen  kissed  the  baby 

feet, 
And,  kneeling  by  the  narrow  winding  sheet, 

Praised  Him  with  fervent  breath 

Who  conquered  death. 


AD    MAJOREM    DEI    GLORIAM 

THY  glory  alone,  O  God,  be  the  end  of  all 
that  I  say  ; 

Let  it  shine  in  every  deed,  let  it  kindle  the 
prayers  that  I  pray  ; 

Let  it  burn  in  my  innermost  soul,  till  the 
shadow  of  self  pass  away, 

And  the  light  of  Thy  glory,  O  God,  be  un- 
veiled in  the  dawning  of  day. 


IN  THE  GOLDEN    BIRCH 

How  the  leaves  sing  to  the  wind  ! 

And  the  wind  with  its  turbulent  voices 
sweet 

Gives  back  the  praise  of  the  leaves,  as  is 

meet, 

To  the  soft  blue  sky,  where  the  cumulous 
clouds  are  thinned, 

And  driven  away,  like  a  flock  of  fright- 
ened sheep, 

By  the  wind  that  waketh  and  putteth  to 
sleep. 

Here,  in  the  golden  birch, 

Folded  in  rapture  of  golden  light, 
I  taste  the  joy  of  the  birds  in  their  flight  ; 
And  I  watch  the  flickering  shadows,  that 

sway  and  lurch 
And  flutter,  like  dancing  brownies,  over 

the  green, 
And  the  birch  is  singing  wherein  I  lean. 


From  over  the  purple  hills 

Comes  the  wind  .with  its  strange  sweet 

song  to  the  land  ; 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  as  it  might 

when  planned 
By   the   Maker,  and   left   unblemished  of 

human  ills  ; 
And  the  river  runs,  like  a  child  to  its 

mother's  knee, 
To  the    heart   of    the   great   unresting 


How  perfect  the  day,  and  sweet ! 
Over  me,  limitless  heavens  of  blue  ; 
Close  to  me,  leaves  that  the  wind  sifts 

through  ; 
And  the  one  sweet  song,  that  the  wind  and 

the  leaves  repeat, 
Till  the   mild,  hushed  meadows   listen, 

crowned  with  light, 
And  the  hill-tops  own  its  might  I 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


659 


HEAT 

FROM  plains  that  reel  to  southward,  dim, 

The  road  runs  by  me  white  and  bare  ; 
Up  the  steep  hill  it  seems  to  swim 

Beyond,  and  melt  into  the  glare. 
Upward  half  way,  or  it  may  be 

Nearer  the  summit,  slowly  steals 
A  hay-cart,  moving  dustily 

With  idly  clacking  wheels. 

By  his  cart's  side  the  wagoner 

Is  slouching  slowly  at  his  ease, 
Half -hidden  in  the  windless  blur 

Of  white  dust  puffing  to  his  knees. 
This  wagon  on  the  height  above, 

From  sky  to  sky  on  either  hand, 
Is  the  sole  thing  that  seems  to  move 

In  all  the  heat-held  land. 

Beyond  me  in  the  fields  the  sun 

Soaks  in  the  grass  and  hath  his  will  ; 
I  count  the  marguerites  one  by  one  ; 

Even  the  buttercups  are  still. 
On  the  brook  yonder  not  a  breath 

Disturbs  the  spider  or  the  midge. 
The  water-bugs  draw  close  beneath 

The  cool  gloom  of  the  bridge. 

Where  the  far  elm-tree  shadows  flood 

Dark  patches  in  the  burning  grass, 
The  cows,  each  with  her  peaceful  cud, 

Lie  waiting  for  the  heat  to  pass. 
From  somewhere  on  the  slope  near  by 

Into  the  pale  depth  of  the  noon 
A  wandering  thrush  slides  leisurely 

His  thin  revolving  tune. 

In  intervals  of  dreams  I  hear 

The  cricket  from  the  droughty  ground  ; 
The  grasshoppers  spin  into  mine  ear 

A  small  innumerable  sound. 
I  lift  mine  eyes  sometimes  to  gaze  : 

The  burning  sky-line  blinds  my  sight  ; 
The  woods  far  off  are  blue  with  haze  ; 

The  hills  are  drenched  in  light. 

And  yet  to  me  not  this  or  that 
Is  always  sharp  or  always  sweet  ; 

In  the  sloped  shadow  of  my  hat 
I  lean  at  rest,  and  drain  the  heat ; 


3£iimpmmt 

Nay  more,  I  think  some  blessed  power 
Hath  brought  me  wandering  idly  here  : 

In  the  full  furnace  of  this  hour 
My  thoughts  grow  keen  and  clear. 

BETWEEN   THE   RAPIDS 

THE  point  is  turned  :  the  twilight  shadow 

fills 
The  wheeling  stream,  the  soft  receding 

shore, 

And  on  our  ears  from  deep  among  the  hills 
Breaks  now  the  rapids'  sudden  quicken- 
ing roar. 
Ah,  yet  the  same  !  or  have  they  changed 

their  face, 
The  fair  green  fields,  and  can  it  still  be 

seen, 
The  white  log  cottage  near  the  mountain's 

base, 
So  bright  and  quiet,  so  home-like   and 

serene  ? 

Ah,  well  I  question,  for  as  five  years  go, 
How  many  blessings  fall,  and  how  much 
woe. 

Aye  there  they  are,  nor  have  they  changed 

their  cheer, 
The  fields,  the  hut,  the  leafy  mountain 

brows  ; 
Across  the  lonely  dusk  again  I  hear 

The  loitering   bells,  the   lowing  of   the 

cows, 

The  bleat  of  many  sheep,  the  stilly  rush 
Of  the  low  whispering  river,  and,  through 

all, 

Soft  human  tongues  that  break  the  deep- 
ening hush 

With  faint-heard  song  or  desultory  call  : 
O  comrades,  hold  !   the    longest   reach  is 

past  ; 

The  stream  runs  swift,  and  we  are  flying 
fast. 

The  shore,  the  fields,  the  cottage,  just  the 

same, 
But  how  with  them  whose  memory  makes 

them  sweet  ? 

Oh,  if  I  called  them,  hailing  name  by  name, 
Would  the  same  lips  the  same  old  shouts 
repeat  ? 


66o 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


Have  the  rough  years,  so  big  with  death 

and  ill, 
Gone  lightly  by  and  left  them  smiling 

yet? 
VVild  black-eyed  Jeanne  whose  tongue  was 

never  still, 
Old  wrinkled   Picaud,  Pierre   and   pale 

Lisette, 
The   homely  hearts   that  never  cared   to 

range, 
While  life's  wide   fields  were   filled  with 

rush  and  change. 

And  where  is  Jacques,  and  where  is  Ver- 

ginie  ? 

I  cannot  tell ;  the  fields  are  all  a  blur. 
The  lowing  cows  whose  shapes  I  scarcely 

see, 

Oh,  do  they  wait  and  do  they  call  for  her  ? 
And  is  she  changed,  or  is  her  heart  still 

clear 

As  wind  or  morning,  light  as  river  foam  ? 
Or  have  life's  changes  borne  her  far  from 

here, 
And  far  from  rest,  and  far  from  help 

and  home  ? 

Ah  comrades,  soft,  and  let  us  rest  awhile, 
For  arms  grow  tired  with  paddling  many  a 
mile. 

The  woods  grow  wild,  and  from  the  rising 

shore 
The   cool  wind  creeps,  the   faint  wood 

odors  steal  ; 
Like  ghosts  adown  the  river's  blackening 

floor 

The  misty  fumes  begin  to  creep  and  reel. 
Once  more  I  leave  you,  wandering  toward 

the  night, 
Sweet  home,   sweet   heart,   that   would 

have  held  me  in  ; 
Whither  I  go  I  know  not,  and  the  light 

Is  faint  before,  and  rest  is  hard  to  win. 
Ah,  sweet  ye  were  and  near  to  heaven's 

gate; 

But  youth  is  blind  and  wisdom  comes  too 
late. 

Blacker  and  loftier  grow  the  woods,  and 

hark  ! 
The  freshening  roar  !     The  chute  is  near 

us  now, 

And  dim  the  canyon  grows,  and  inky  dark 
The  water  whispering  from  the  birchen 
prow. 


One  long  last  look,  and  many  a  sad  adieu, 
While  eyes  can  see  and  heart  can  feel 

you  yet, 
I  leave  sweet  home  and  sweeter  hearts  to 

you, 

A  prayer  for  Picaud,  one  for  pale  Lisette, 
A  kiss  for  Pierre,  my  little  Jacques,  and 

thee, 
A  sigh  for  Jeanne,  a  sob  for  Verginie. 

Oh,  does  she  still  remember  ?   Is  the  dream 
Now  dead,   or  has   she   found  another 

mate  ? 
So  near,    so  dear ;   and   ah,  so  swift   the 

stream  ; 
Even  now  perhaps  it  were  not  yet  too 

late. 

But,  oh,  what  matter  ;  for,  before  the  night 
Has  reached  its  middle,  we  have  far  to 

go: 
Bend  to  your  paddles,  comrades  ;  see,  the 

light 

Ebbs  off  apace  ;  we  must  not  linger  so. 
Aye  thus  it  is  !     Heaven  gleams  and  then 

is  gone. 

Once,  twice,  it  smiles,  and  still  we  wander 
on. 


A  FORECAST 

WHAT    days    await    this    woman,    whose 

strange  feet 
Breathe  spells,  whose  presence  makes  men 

dream  like  wine, 

Tall,  free  and  slender  as  the  forest  pine, 
Whose   form   is   moulded   music,  through 

whose  sweet 
Frank  eyes  I  feel   the  very  heart's  least 

beat, 
Keen,  passionate,  and  full  of  dreams  and 

fire  : 

How  in  the  end,  and  to  what  man's  desire 
Shall  all  this  yield,  whose  lips  shall  these 

lips  meet  ? 
One  thing  I  know  :   if   he   be    great  and 

pure, 

This  love,  this  fire,  this  beauty  shall  endure  ; 
Triumph  and  hope  shall  lead  him  by  the 

palm  : 

But  if  not  this,  some  differing  thing  he  be, 
That  dream  shall  break  in  terror  ;  he  shall 

see 
The  whirlwind  ripen,  where  he  sowed  the 

calm. 


ARCHIBALD   LAMPMAN 


661 


THE   LOONS 

ONCE  ye   were   happy,   once   by  many   a 

shore, 
Wherever  Glooscap's    gentle    feet  might 

stray, 
Lulled  by  his  presence  like  a  dream,  ye 

lay 

Floating  at  rest  ;  but  that  was  long  of  yore. 
He  was  too  good  for  earthly  men  ;  he  bore 
Their  bitter  deeds  for  many  a  patient  day, 
And  then  at  last  he  took  his  unseen  way. 
He  was  your  friend,  and  ye  might  rest  no 

more  : 
And  now,  though  many  hundred  altering 

years 
Have  passed,  among  the  desolate  northern 

meres 

Still  must  ye   search  and  wander  queru- 
lously, 

Crying  for  Glooscap,  still  bemoan  the  light 
With  weird  entreaties,  and  in  agony 
With  awful  laughter  pierce  the  lonely  night. 


THE    CITY  OF   THE    END   OF 
THINGS 

BESIDE  the  pounding  cataracts 
Of  midnight  streams  unknown  to  us, 
'T  is  builded  in  the  dismal  tracts 
And  valleys  huge  of  Tartarus. 
Lurid  and  lofty  and  vast  it  seems  ; 
It  hath  no  rounded  name  that  rings, 
But  I  have  heard  it  called  in  dreams 
The  City  of  the  End  of  Things. 

Its  roofs  and  iron  towers  have  grown 
None  knoweth  how  high  within  the  night, 
But  in  its  murky  streets  far  down 
A  flaming  terrible  and  bright 
Shakes  all  the  stalking  shadows  there, 
Across  the  walls,  across  the  floors, 
And  shifts  upon  the  upper  air 
From  out  a  thousand  furnace  doors  ; 
And  all  the  while  an  awful  sound 
Keeps  roaring  on  continually, 
And  crashes  in  the  ceaseless  round 
Of  a  gigantic  harmony. 
Through  its  grim  depths  reechoing, 
And  all  its  weary  height  of  walls, 
With  measured  roar  and  iron  ring,    . 
The  inhuman  music  lifts  and  falls. 
Where  no  thing  rests  and  no  man  is, 
And  only  fire  and  night  hold  sway, 


The  beat,  the  thunder,  and  the  hiss 
Cease  not,  and  change  not,  night  nor  day. 

And  moving  at  unheard  commands, 

The  abysses  and  vast  fires  between, 

Flit  figures  that,  with  clanking  hands, 

Obey  a  hideous  routine. 

They  are  not  flesh,  they  are  not  bone; 

They  see  not  with  the  human  eye,, 

And  from  their  iron  lips  is  blown 

A  dreadful  and  monotonous  cry. 

And  whoso  of  our  mortal  race 

Should  find  that  city  unaware, 

Lean  Death  would  smite  him  face  to  face, 

And  blanch  him  with  its  venomed  air  ; 

Or,  caught  by  the  terrific  spell, 

Each  thread  of  memory  snapped  and  cyt. 

His  soul  would  shrivel,  and  its  shell 

Go  rattling  like  an  empty  nut. 

It  was  not  always  so,  but  once, 
In  days  that  no  man  thinks  upon, 
Fair  voices  echoed  from  its  stones, 
The  light  above  it  leaped  and  shone. 
Once  there  were  multitudes  of  men 
That  built  that  city  in  their  pride, 
Until  its  might  was  made,  and  then 
They  withered,  age  by  age,  and  died  ; 
And  now  of  that  prodigious  race 
Three  only  in  an  iron  tower, 
Set  like  carved  idols  face  to  face, 
Remain  the  masters  of  its  power  ; 
And  at  the  city  gate  a  fourth, 
Gigantic  and  with  dreadful  eyes, 
Sits  looking  toward  the  lightless  north, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  memories  : 
Fast-rooted  to  the  lurid  floor, 
A  bulk  that  never  moves  a  jot, 
In  his  pale  body  dwells  no  more 
Or  mind  or  soul,  —  an  idiot  ! 

But  some  time  in  the  end  those  three 
Shall  perish  and  their  hands  be  still, 
And  with  the  masters'  touch  shall  flee 
Their  incommunicable  skill. 
A  stillness,  absolute  as  death, 
Along  the  slacking  wheels  shall  lie. 
And,  flagging  at  a  single  breath, 
The  fires  shall  smoulder  out  and  die. 
The  roar  shall  vanish  at  its  height, 
And  over  that  tremendous  town 
The  silence  of  eternal  night 
Shall  gather  close  and  settle  down. 
All  its  grim  grandeur,  tower  and  halL 
Shall  be  abandoned  utterly, 


662 


DOMINION  OF  CANADA 


And  into  rust  and  dust  shall  fall 
From  century  to  century. 
Nor  ever  living  thing  shall  grow, 
Or  trunk  of  tree  or  blade  of  grass  ; 
No  drop  shall  fall,  no  wind  shall  blow, 


Nor  sound  of  any  foot  shall  pass. 

Alone  of  its  accursed  state 

One  thing  the  hand  of  Time  shall  spare, 

For  the  grim  Idiot  at  the  gate 

la  deathless  and  eternal  there  i 


MARIAN    DRURY 

MARIAN  DKURY,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  sea  ! 

Acadie  dreams  of  your  coming  home 
All  year  through,  and  her  heart   gets 
free, — 

Free  on  the  trail  of  the  wind  to  travel, 
Search  and  course  with  the  roving  tide, 

All  year  long  where  his  hands  unravel 
Blossom  and  berry  the  marshes  hide. 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  surge  ! 
April  over  the  Norland  now 

Walks    in    the    quiet    from    verge    to 
verge. 

Burying,  brimming,  the  building  billows 
Fret  the  long  dikes  with  uneasy  foam. 
Drenched    with   gold  weather,   the   idling 

willows 

Kiss  you    a    hand    from    the    Norland 
home. 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  sun  ! 

Blomidon  waits  for  your  coming  home, 
All  day  long  where    the  white   wings 
run. 

All  spring  through  they  falter  and  follow, 
Wander,  and  beckon  the  roving  tide, 

Wheel  and  float  with  the  veering  swallow, 
Lift  you  a  voice    from   the    blue   hill- 
side. 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  full  of  the  rain  ! 

April  over  the  Norland  now 
Bugles  for  rapture,  and  rouses  pain,  — 


Halts  before  the  forsaken  dwelling, 
Where   in    the   twilight,   too    spent 
roam, 


to 


Carman 

Love,  whom  the  fingers  of  death  are  quell- 
ing, 

Cries  you  a  cheer  from    the   Norland 
home. 

Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury, 

How  are  the  marshes  filled  with  you  ! 

Grand  Pre  dreams  of  your  coming  home,  — 
Dreams   while   the    rainbirds   all   night 
through, 

Far  in  the  uplands  calling  to  win  you, 
Tease  the  brown  dusk  on  the  marshes 
wide  ; 

And  never  the  burning  heart  within  you 
Stirs  in  your  sleep  by  the  roving  tide. 

A   SEA  CHILD 

THE  lover  of  child  Marjory 

Had  one  white  hour  of  life  brim  full ; 
Now  the  old  nurse,  the  rocking  sea, 

Hath  him  to  lull. 

The  daughter  of  child  Marjory 
Hath  in  her  veins,  to  beat  and  run, 

The  glad  indomitable  sea, 
The  strong  white  sun'. 

GOLDEN    ROWAN 

SHE  lived  where  the  mountains  go  down  to 

the  sea, 
And  river  and  tide  confer. 

Golden  Rowan,  in  Menalowan, 
Was  the  name  they  gave  to  hec. 

She  had  the  soul  no  circumstance 
Can  hurry  or  defer. 

Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
How  time  stood  still  for  her  1 

Her  playmates  for  their  lovers  grews 
But  that  shy  wanderer, 

Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan, 
Knew  love  was  not  for  her. 


BLISS   CARMAN 


663 


Hers  was  the  love  of  wilding  things  ; 
To  hear  a  squirrel  chir 

In  the  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan 
Was  joy  enough  for  her. 

She  sleeps  on  the  hill  with  the  lonely  sun, 
Where  in  the  days  that  were, 

The  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan 
So  often  shadowed  her. 

The  scarlet  fruit  will  come  to  fill, 
The  scarlet  spring  to  stir 

The  golden  rowan  of  Menalowan, 
And  wake  no  dream  for  her. 

Only  the  wind  is  over  her  grave, 
For  mourner  and  comforter  ; 

And  "  Golden  Rowan,  of  Menalowan," 
Is  all  we  know  of  her. 

SPRING   SONG 

MAKE  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 
When  thy  flowery  hand  delivers 
All  the  mountain-prisoned  rivers, 
And  thy  great  heart  beats  and  quivers 
To  revive  the  days  that  were, 
Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 

Take  my  dust  and  all  my  dreaming, 
Count  my  heart-beats  one  by  one, 
Send  them  where  the  winters  perish  ; 
Then  some  golden  noon  recherish 
And  restore  them  in  the  sun, 
Flower  and  scent  and  dust  and  dreaming, 
With  their  heart-beats  every  one  1 

Set  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wing  ! 
Breast  of  scarlet,  throat  of  yellow, 
Raucous  challenge,  wooings  mellow  — 
Every  migrant  is  my  fellow, 
Making  northward  with  the  spring. 
Loose  me  in  the  urge  and  tide-drift 
Of  the  streaming  hosts  a-wing  ! 

Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle, 
In  the  valleys  come  again  ; 
Fife  of  frog  and  call  of  tree-toad, 
All  my  brothers,  five  or  three-toed, 
With  their  revel  no  more  vetoed, 
Making  music  in  the  rain  ; 
Shrilling  pipe  or  fluting  whistle, 
In  the  valleys  come  again. 


Make  me  of  thy  seed  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 
Tawny  light-foot,  sleepy  bruin, 
Bright-eyes  in  the  orchard  ruin, 
Gnarl  the  good  life  goes  askew  in, 
Whiskey-jack,  or  tanager,  — 
Make  me  anything  to-morrow, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 

Make  me  even  (How  do  I  know  ?) 

Like  my  friend  the  gargoyle  there  ; 

It  may  be  the  heart  within  him 

Swells  that  doltish  hands  should  pin  him 

Fixed  forever  in  mid-air. 

Make  me  even  sport  for  swallows, 

Like  the  soaring  gargoyle  there  J 

Give  me  the  old  clue  to  follow, 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night ! 
Clod  of  clay  with  heart  of  fire, 
Things  that  burrow  and  aspire, 
With  the  vanishing  desire, 
For  the  perishing  delight,  — 
Only  the  old  clue  to  follow, 
Through  the  labyrinth  of  night ! 

Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 
Fashion  me  from  swamp  or  meadow, 
Garden  plot  or  ferny  shadow, 
Hyacinth  or  humble  burr  ! 
Make  me  over,  mother  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 

Let  me  hear  the  far,  low  summons, 
When  the  silver  winds  return  ; 
Rills  that  run  and  streams  that  stammer, 
Goldenwing  with  his  loud  hammer, 
Icy  brooks  that  brawl  and  clamor 
Where  the  Indian  willows  burn  ; 
Let  me  hearken  to  the  calling, 
When  the  silver  winds  return, 

Till  recurring  and  recurring, 
Long  since  wandered  and  come  back, 
Like  a  whim  of  Grieg's  or  Gounod's, 
This  same  self,  bird,  bud,  or  Bluenose, 
Some  day  I  may  capture  (Who  knows  ?) 
Just  the  one  last  joy  I  lack, 
Waking  to  the  far  new  summons, 
When  the  old  spring  winds  come  back. 

For  I  have  no  choice  of  being, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  climb,  — 
Strong  insistence,  sweet  intrusion, 
Vasts  and  verges  of  illusion,  — 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


So  I  win,  to  time's  confusion, 
The  one  perfect  pearl  of  time, 
Joy  and  joy  and  joy  forever, 
Till  the  sap  forgets  to  climb  ! 

Make  me  over  in  the  morning 
From  the  rag-bag  of  the  world  ! 
Scraps  of  dream  and  duds  of  daring, 
Home-brought  stuff  from  far  sea-faring, 
Faded  colors  once  so  flaring, 
Shreds  of  banners  long  since  furled  ! 
Hues  of  ash  and  glints  of  glory, 
In  the  rag-bag  of  the  world  ! 

Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more  ; 
Not  recalling  nor  foreseeing, 
Let  the  great  slow  joys  of  being 
Well  my  heart  through  as  of  yore  ! 
Let  me  taste  the  old  immortal 
Indolence  of  life  once  more  ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain, 

All  my  fellows  drank  in  plenty 

At  the  Three  Score  Inns  and  Twenty 

From  the  mountains  to  the  main  ! 

Give  me  the  old  drink  for  rapture, 

The  delirium  to  drain  ! 

Only  make  me  over,  April, 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  f 
Make  me  man  or  make  me  woman, 
Make  me  oaf  or  ape  or  human, 
Cup  of  flower  or  cone  of  fir  ; 
Make  me  anything  but  neuter 
When  the  sap  begins  to  stir  ! 


A  MORE   ANCIENT   MARINER 

THE  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer, 

A  burly  velveted  rover, 

Who  loves  the  booming  wind  in  his  ear 

As  he  sails  the  seas  of  clover. 

A  waif  of  the  goblin  pirate  crew, 
With  not  a  soul  to  deplore  him, 
He  steers  for  the  open  verge  of  blue 
With  the  filmy  world  before  him. 

His  flimsy  sails  abroad  on  the  wind 
Are  shivered  with  fairy  thunder  ; 
On  a  line  that  sings  to  the  light  of  his  wings 
He  makes  for  the  lands  of  wonder. 


He  harries  the  ports  of  the  Hollyhocks, 
And  levies  on  poor  Sweetbrier  ; 
He  drinks  the  whitest  wine  of  Phlox, 
And  the  Rose  is  his  desire. 

He  hangs  in  the  Willows  a  night  and  a 

day; 

He  rifles  the  Buckwheat  patches  ; 
Then  battens  his  store  of  pelf  galore 
Under  the  tautest  hatches. 

He  woos  the  Poppy  and  weds  the  Peach-, 
Inveigles  Daffodilly, 
And  then  like  a  tramp  abandons  each 
For  the  gorgeous  Canada  Lily. 

There  's  not  a  soul  in  the  garden  world 
But  wishes  the  day  were  shorter, 
When  Mariner  B.  puts  out  to  sea 
With  the  wind  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Or,  so  they  say  !     But  I  have  my  doubts  ; 
For  the  flowers  are  only  human, 
And  the  valor  and  gold  of  a  vagrant  bold 
Were  always  dear  to  woman. 

He  dares  to  boast,  along  the  coast, 
The  beauty  of  Highland  Heather,  — 
How  he  and  she,  with  night  on  the  sea, 
Lay  out  on  the  hills  together. 

He  pilfers  from  every  port  of  the  wind, 
From  April  to  golden  autumn  ; 
But  the  thieving  ways  of  his  mortal  days 
Are  those  his  mother  taught  him. 

His  morals  are  mixed,  but  his  will  is  fixed  ; 
He  prospers  after  his  kind, 
And  follows  an  instinct,  compass-sure, 
The  philosophers  call  blind. 

And  that  is  why,  when  he  conies  to  die, 

He  '11  have  an  easier  sentence 

Than  some   one   I  know  who  thinks  just 

so, 
And  then  leaves  room  for  repentance. 

He  never  could  box  the  compass  round  ; 
He  does  n't  know  port  from  starboard  ; 
But  he  knows  the  gates  of  the  Sundowa 

Straits, 
Where  the  choicest  goods  are  harbored. 


BLISS   CARMAN 


665 


Better  than  Euclid's,  better  than  yours, 
Or  the  teachers'  yet  to  come. 

He  knows  the  smell  of  the  hydromel 
As  if  two  and  two  were  five  ; 
And  hides  it  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 
In  his  own  hexagonal  hive. 

Out  in  the  day,  hap-hazard,  alone, 
Booms  the  old  vagrant  hummer, 
With  only  his  whim  to  pilot  him 
Through  the  splendid  vast  of  summer. 

He  steers  and  steers  on  the  slant  of  the 

gale, 

Like  the  fiend  or  Vanderdecken  ; 
And  there  's  never  an  unknown  course  to 

sail 
But  his  crazy  log  can  reckon. 

He  drones  along  with  his  rough  sea-song 

And  the  throat  of  a  salty  tar, 

This    devil-may-care,   till    he    makes    his 

lair 
By  the  light  of  a  yellow  star. 

He   looks  like  a  gentleman,  lives  like  a 

lord, 

And  works  like  a  Trojan  hero  ; 
Then  loafs  all  winter  upon  his  hoard, 
With  the  mercury  at  zero. 


A  WINDFLOWER 

BETWEEN  the  roadside  and  the  wood, 
Between  the  dawning  and  the  dew, 

A  tiny  flower  before  the  wind, 
Ephemeral  in  time,  I  grew. 

The  chance  of  straying  feet  came  by,  — 
Xor  death  nor  love  nor  any  name 

Known  among  men  in  all  their  lands,  — 
Yet  failure  put  desire  to  shame. 

To-night  can  bring  no  healing  now, 
The  calm  of  yesternight  is  gone  ; 

Surely  the  wind  is  but  the  wind, 
And  I  a  broken  waif  thereon. 

How  fair  my  thousand  brothers  wave 
Upon  the  floor  of  God's  abode  : 

Whence  came  that  careless  wanderer 
Between  the  woodside  and  the  road  ! 


THE    MENDICANTS 

WE  are  as  mendicants  who  wait 
Along  the  roadside  in  the  sun. 
Tatters  of  yesterday  and  shreds 
Of  morrow  clothe  us  every  one. 

And  some  are  dotards,  who  believe 
And  glory  in  the  days  of  old  ; 
While  some  are  dreamers,  harping  still 
Upon  an  unknown  age  of  gold. 

Hopeless  or  witless !     Not  one  heeds, 
As  lavish  Time  comes  down  the  way 
And  tosses  in  the  suppliant  hat 
One  great  new-minted  gold  To-day. 

Ungrateful  heart  and  grudging  thanks, 
His  beggar's  wisdom  only  sees 
Housing  and  bread  and  beer  enough  ; 
He  knows  no  other  things  than  these. 

O  foolish  ones,  put  by  your  care  ! 
Where  wants  are  many,  joys  are  few  ; 
And  at  the  wilding  springs  of  peace, 
God  keeps  an  open  house  for  you. 

But  that  some  Fortunatus'  gift 
Is  lying  there  within  his  hand, 
More  costly  than  a  pot  of  pearls, 
His  dulness  does  not  understand. 

And  so  his  creature  heart  is  filled  ; 
His  shrunken  self  goes  starved  away. 
Let  him  wear  brand-new  garments  still, 
Who  has  a  threadbare  soul,  I  say. 

But  there  be  others,  happier  few, 
The  vagabondish  sons  of  God, 
Who  know  the  by-ways  and  the  flowers, 
And  care  not  how  the  world  may  plod. 

They  idle  down  the  traffic  lands, 

And  loiter  through  the  woods  with  spring 

To  them  the  glory  of  the  earth 

Is  but  to  hear  a  bluebird  sing. 

They  too  receive  each  one  his  Day  ; 
But  their  wise  heart  knows  many  things 
Beyond  the  sating  of  desire, 
Above  the  dignity  of  kings. 

One  I  remember  kept  his  coin, 
And  laughing  flipped  it  in  the  air  ; 


666 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


But  when  two  strolling  pipe-players 
Came  by,  he  tossed  it  to  the  pair. 

Spendthrift  of  joy,  his  childish  heart 
Danced  to  their  wild  outlandish  bars  ; 
Then  supperless  he  laid  him  down 
That  night,  and  slept  beneath  the  stars. 


SONG 

LOVE,  by  that  loosened  hair 
Well  now  I  know 
Where  the  lost  Lilith  went 
So  long  ago. 

Love,  by  those  starry  eyes 
I  understand 

How  the  sea  maidens  lure 
Mortals  from  land. 

Love,  by  that  welling  laugh 
Joy  claims  his  own 
Sea-born  and  wind-wayward 
Child  of  the  sun. 


HACK   AND    HEW 

HACK  and  Hew  were  the  sons  of  God 
In  the  earlier  earth  than  now  : 

One  at  his  right  hand,  one  at  his  left, 
To  obey  as  he  taught  them  how. 

And  Hack  was  blind,  and  Hew  was  dumb, 
But  both  had  the  wild,  wild  heart ; 

And  God's  calm  will  was  their  burning  will, 
And  the  gist  of  their  toil  was  art. 

They  made  the  moon  and  the  belted  stars, 

They  set  the  sun  to  ride  ; 
They  loosed  the  girdle  and  veil  of  the  sea, 

The  wind  and  the  purple  tide. 

Both  flower  and  beast  beneath  their  hands 
To  beauty  and  speed  outgrew,  — 

The  furious,  fumbling  hand  of  Hack, 
And  the  glorying  hand  of  Hew. 


Then,    fire    and    clay,   they    fashioned    a 

man, 

And  painted  him  rosy  brown  ; 
And  God  himself  blew  hard  in  his  eyes  : 
"  Let    them    burn    till    they    smoulder 
down  ! " 

And  "  There  !  "  said  Hack,  and  "  There  I  " 
thought  Hew, 

"  We  '11  rest,  for  our  toil  is  done." 
But  "  Nay,"  the  Master  Workman  said, 

"  For  your  toil  is  just  begun. 

"  And  ye  who  served  me  of  old  as  God 

Shall  serve  me  anew  as  man, 
Till  I  compass  the  dream  that  is  in  my 
heart, 

And  perfect  the  vaster  plan." 

And  still  the  craftsman  over  his  craft, 
In  the  vague  white  light  of  dawn, 

With  God's  calm  will  for  his  burning  will; 
While  the  mounting  day  comes  on, 

Yearning,  wind-swift,  indolent,  wild,* 
Toils  with  those  shadowy  two,  — 

The  faltering,  restless  hand  of  Hack, 
And  the  tireless  hand  of  Hew. 


ENVOY 


HAVE  little  care  that  Life  is  brief, 
And  less  that  Art  is  long. 
Success  is  in  the  silences 
Though  Fame  is  in  the  song. 


With  the  Orient  in  her  eyes, 

Life  my  mistress  lured  me  on. 

"  Knowledge,"  said  that  look  of  hers, 

"  Shall  be  yours  when  all  is  done." 

Like  a  pomegranate  in  halves, 
"  Drink  me,"  said  that  mouth  of  hers, 
And  I  drank  who  now  am  here 
Where  my  dust  with  dust  confers. 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


667 


.  f  rance£ 


("  SERANUS  ") 


CHATEAU  PAPINEAU 
(AFLOAT) 


THE  red  tiled  towers  of  the  old  Chateau, 

Perched  on  the  cliff  above  our  bark, 
Burn  in  the  western  evening  glow. 

The  fiery  spirit  of  Papineau 

Consumes  them  still  with  its  fever  spark, 
The  red  tiled  towers  of  the  old  Chateau  ! 

Drift  by  and  mark  how  bright  they  show, 
And    how    the     mullioued     windows  — 

mark  ! 
Burn  in  the  western  evening  glow  ! 

Drift  down,  or  up,  where'er  you  go, 

They  flame  from  out  the  distant  park, 
The  red  tiled  towers  of  the  old  Chateau. 

So  was  it  once  with  friend,  with  foe  ; 

Far  off  they  saw  the  patriot's  ark 
Burn  in  the  western  evening  glow. 

Think  of  him  now  !     One  thought  bestow, 
As,  blazing  against  the  pine  trees  dark, 
The  red  tiled  towers  of  the  old  Chateau 
Burn  in  the  western  evening  glow  ! 


(ASHORE) 
ii 

Within  this  charmed  cool  retreat 

Where  bounty  dwelt  and  beauty  waits, 
The  Old  World  and  the  New  World  meet. 

Quitting  the  straggling  village  street, 

Enter,  —  passing  the  great  gray  gates, 
Within  this  charmed  cool  retreat. 

Where  thrives  a  garden,  ancient,  neat, 
Where  vulgar  noise  ne'er  penetrates, 
The  Old  World  and  the  New  World  meet. 

For  mouldering  vault  and  carven  seat 

Tell  us  that  France  predominates 
Within  this  charmed  cool  retreat, 


Though  Canada  be  felt  in  beat 

Of  summer  pulse  that  enervates: 
The  Old  World  and  the  New  World  meet 

In  dial,  arbor,  tropic  heat. 

Enter  !   And  note,  how  clear  all  states 
That,  in  this  charmed  cool  retreat, 
The  Old  World  and  the  New  World  meet. 


in 

The  garden 's  past.     'T  is  forest  now 

Encircling  us  with  leafy  tide, 
Close  clustering  in  green  branch  and  bough. 

So  beautiful  a  wood,  we  vow, 

Was  never  seen,  so  fresh,  so  wide. 
The  garden  's  past,  'tis  forest  now, 

'T  is  more,  'tis  Canada,  and  how 

Should  feudal  leaven  lurk  and  hide 
Close    clustering    in     green     branch    and 
bough  ? 

Quaintly  the  dial  on  the  brow 

Of  yonder  open  glade  is  spied  ; 
The  garden  's  past,  't  is  forest  now, 

Yet  doth  the  dial  straight  endow 

The  green  with  glamor  undenied, 
Close  clustering  in  green  branch  and  bough. 

Such  relics  who  would  disallow  ? 

We  pause  and  ponder  ;  turn  aside  ; 
The  garden  's  past,  't  is  forest  now, 
Close  clustering  in  green  branch  and  bough. 

IV 

The  glint  of  steel,  the  gleam  of  brocade, 

"Monseigneur  "  up  in  his  tarnished  frame, 
A  long  low  terrace,  half  sun,  half  shade  ; 

Tapestry,  dusty,  dim  and  frayed, 

Fauteuil  and  sofa,  a  flickering  flamev 
A  glint  of  steel,  a  gleam  of  brocade  ; 

"  Mdme  "  on  the  wall  as  a  roguish  maid, 

Later  —  some  years  —  as  a  portly  dame, 
The  long  low  terrace,  half  sun,  half  shade, 


668 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


Where  "  Mdme's  "  ghost  and  "  Monsieur's  " 

parade, 
Aiid     play     at    ombre,    their    favorite 

game  ! 
The  glint  of  steel,  the  gleam  of  brocade, 

Hang  over  hall  and  balustrade. 

Paceth  a  spectral  peacock  tame 
The    long    low    terrace,    half     sun,    half 
shade. 

Waketh  a  nightly  serenade 

Where  daylight  now  we  see  proclaim 
The  glint  of  steel,  the  gleam  of  brocade, 
The    long    low    terrace,    half     sun,    half 
shade  ! 


The  spell  of  Age  is  over  all, 

The  lichened  vault,  the  massive  keep, 

The  shaded  walks,  the  shadowy  hall, 

And  mediaeval  mists  enthrall 

The  senses  bathed  in  beauty  sleep,  — 

The  spell  of  age  is  over  all ! 

No  marvel  if  a  silken  shawl 

Be  sometimes  heard  to  trail  and  sweep 

The  shaded  walks,  the  shadowy  hall. 

No  marvel  if  a  light  footfall 

Adown  the  stair  be  heard  to  creep,  — 

The  spell  of  age  is  over  all. 


A  foot  —  we  muse  —  both  arched  and  small, 
Doth  often  tread  this  terrace  steep, 
Those  shaded  walks,  this  shadowy  ball 

A  foot  as  white  as  trilliums  tall  — 
Musing,  the  wall  we  lightly  leap. 
The  spell  of  Age  is  over  all ! 
The  shaded  walks  —  the  shadowy  hall. 

SEPTEMBER 
I 

BIRDS  that  were  gray  in  the  green  are  black 

iu  the  yellow. 
Here  where  the  green  remains  rocks  one 

little  fellow. 

Quaker  in  gray,  do  you  know  that  the 

green  is  going  ? 
More  than  that  —  do  you  know  that  the 

yellow  is  showing  ? 


Singer  of  songs,  do  you  know  that  your 

youth  is  flying  ? 
That  Age  will  soon  at  the  lock  of  your  life 

be  prying  ? 

Lover  of  life,  do  you  know  that  the  brown 

is  going  ? 
More  than  that  —  do  you  know  that  the 

gray  is  showing  ? 


HDuncan  Campbell  £cott 


ABOVE   ST.   IRENEE 

I  RESTED  on  the  breezy  height, 
In  cooler  shade  and  clearer  air, 
Beneath  a  maple  tree  ; 

Below,  the  mighty  river  took 
Its  sparkling  shade  and  sheeny  light 
Down  to  the  sombre  sea, 

And  clustered  by  the  leaping  brook 
The  roofs  of  white  St.  Ire'ne'e. 

The  sapphire  hills  on  either  hand 
Broke  down  upon  the  silver  tide, 
The  river  ran  in  streams, 

In  streams  of  mingled  azure-gray 


With  here  a  broken  purple  band, 
And  whorls  of  drab,  and  beams 

Of  shattered  silver  light  astray, 
Where    far    away    the    south    shore 
gleams. 

I  walked  a  mile  along  the  height 
Between  the  flowers  upon  the  road, 
Asters  and  golden-rod  ; 

And    in     the    gardens    pinks    and 

stocks, 
And  gaudy  poppies  shaking  light, 

And  daisies  blooming  near  the  sod, 

And  lowly  pansies  set  in  flocks 
With  purple  monkshood  overawed. 


DUNCAN    CAMPBELL   SCOTT 


669 


And  there  I  saw  a  little  child 
Between  the  tossing  golden-rod, 
Coming  along  to  me  ; 

She  was  a  tender  little  thing, 
So  fragile-sweet,  so  Mary-mild, 
I  thought  her  name  Marie  ; 

No    other    name   methought   could 

cling 
To  any  one  so  fair  as  she. 

And  when  we  came  at  last  to  meet, 
I  spoke  a  simple  word  to  her, 
"  Where  are  you  going,  Marie  ?  " 

She  answered  and  she  did  not  smile, 
But  oh,  her  voice,  —  her  voice  so  sweet, 
"Down  to  St.  Ire'ne'e," 

And  so  passed  on  to  walk  her  mile, 
And  left  the  lonely  road  to  me. 


A  LITTLE   SONG 

THE  sunset  in  the  rosy  west 

Burned  soft  and  high  ; 
A  shore-lark  fell  like  a  stone  to  his  nest 

In  the  waving  rye. 

A  wind  came  over  the  garden  beds 

From  the  dreamy  lawn, 
The  pansies  nodded  their  purple  heads, 

The  poppies  began  to  yawn. 

One  pansy  said  :  It  is  only  sleep, 

Only  his  gentle  breath  : 
But  a  rose  lay  strewn  in  a  snowy  heap, 

For  the  rose  it  was  only  death. 

Heigho,  we  've  only  one  life  to  live, 

And  only  one  deatli  to  die  : 
Good-morrow,  new  world,  have  you  nothing 
to  give  ?  — 

Good-bye,  old  world,  good-bye. 


AT   LES    EBOULEMENTS 

IHE  bay  is  set  with  ashy  sails, 

With  purple  shades  that  fade  and  flee, 
And  curling  by  in  silver  wales 

The  tide  is  straining  from  the  sea. 

The  grassy  points  are  slowly  drowned, 
The  waiter  laps  and  overrolls 

The  wicker  peche  ;  with  shallow  sound 
.1  light  wave  labors  on  the  shoals. 


The  crows  are  feeding  in  the  foam, 

They  rise  in  crowds  tmnultuously, 
"  Come   home,"  they  cry,  "  come  home,  — « 

come  home, 
And  leave  the  marshes  to  the  sea." 


OTTAWA 

CITY  about  whose  brow  the   north  winds 

blow, 
Girdled  with  woods   and  shod  with   river 

foam, 

Called  by  a  name  as  old  as  Troy  or  Rome, 
Be  great   as   they  but  pure  as  thine  own 

snow  ; 

Rather  flash  up  amid  the  auroral  glow, 
The  Lamia  city  of  the  northern  star, 
Than  be  so  hard  with  craft  or  wild  with 

war, 
Peopled  with  deeds  remembered  for  their 

woe. 
Thou  art  too  bright  for  guile,  too  young  for 

tears, 
And   thou  wilt  live  to  be  too  strong  for 

Time; 
For  he  may  mock  thee  with  his  furrowed 

frowns, 
But  thou  wilt  grow  in  calm  throughout  the 

years, 
Cinctured   with  peace  and    crowned  with 

power  sublime, 
The  maiden  queen  of  all  the  towered  towns. 


AT  THE  CEDARS 

You  had  two  girls  —  Baptiste  — 
One  is  Virginie  — 
Hold  hard  —  Baptiste  ! 
Listen  to  me. 

The  whole  drive  was  jammed, 
In  that  bend  at  the  Cedars  ; 
The  rapids  were  dammed 
With  the  logs  tight  rammed 
And  crammed  ;  you  might  know 
The  Devil  had  clinched  them  below. 

We  worked  three  days  —  not  a  budge  t 

"  She 's  as  tight  as  a  wedge 

On  the  ledge," 

Says  our  foreman  : 

"  Mon  Dieu  I  boys,  look  here, 

We  must  get  this  thing  clear." 


670 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


He  cursed  at  the  men, 
And  we  went  for  it  then  ; 
With  our  cant-dogs  arow, 
We  just  gave  he-yo-ho, 
When  she  gave  a  big  shove 
From  above. 

The  gang  yelled,  and  tore 
For  the  shore  ; 
The  logs  gave  a  grind, 
Like  a  wolf's  jaws  behind, 
And  as  quick  as  a  flash, 
With  a  shove  and  a  crash, 
They  were  down  in  a  mash, 
But  I  and  ten  more, 
All  but  Isaac  Dufour, 
Were  ashore. 

He  leaped  on  a  log  in  the  front  of  the  rush, 

And  shot  out  from  the  bind 

While  the  jam  roared  behind ; 

As  he  floated  along 

He  balanced  his  pole 

And  tossed  us  a  song. 

But,  just  as  we  cheered, 

Up  darted  a  log  from  the  bottom, 

Leaped  thirty  feet  fair  and  square, 

And  came  down  on  his  own. 

He  went  up  like  a  block 

With  the  shock  ; 

And  when  he  was  there, 

In  the  air, 

Kissed  his  hand 

To  the  land. 

When  he  dropped 

My  heart  stopped, 

For  the  first  logs  had  caught  him 

And  crushed  him  ; 

When  he  rose  in  his  place 

There  was  blood  on  his  face. 

There  were  some  girls,  Baptiste, 
Picking  berries  on  the  hillside, 
Where  the  river  curls,  Baptiste, 
You  know,  —  on  the  still  side 
One  was  down  by  the  water, 
She  saw  Isaac 
Fall  back. 

She  did  not  scream,  Baptiste, 
She  launched  her  canoe  ; 
It  did  seem,  Baptiste, 
That  she  wanted  to  die  too, 
For  before  you  could  think 
The  birch  cracked  like  a  shell 


In  that  rush  of  hell, 

And  I  saw  them  both  sink  • 

Baptiste  ! 

He  had  two  girls, 

One  is  Virginie  ; 

What  God  calls  the  other 

Is  not  known  to  me. 


IN    NOVEMBER 

THE  ruddy  sunset  lies 
Banked  along  the  west  ; 

In  flocks  with  sweep  and  rise 
The  birds  are  going  to  rest. 

The  air  clings  and  cools, 
And  the  reeds  look  cold, 

Standing  above  the  pools, 
Like  rods  of  beaten  gold. 

The  flaunting  golden-rod 
Has  lost  her  worldly  mood, 

She  's  given  herself  to  God, 
And  taken  a  nun's  hood. 

The  wild  and  wanton  horde, 
That  kept  the  summer  revel, 

Have  taken  the  serge  and  cord, 
And  given  the  slip  to  the  Devil. 

The  winter  's  loose  somewhere, 
Gathering  snow  for  a  fight  ; 

From  the  feel  of  the  air 

I  think  it  will  freeze  to-night. 


THE   REED-PLAYER 

BY  a  dim  shore  where  water  darkening 

Took  the  last  light  of  spring, 
I  went  beyond  the  tumult,  hearkening 

For  some  diviner  thing. 

Where  the  bats  flew  from  the  black  elm9 

like  leaves, 
Over  the  ebon  pool 
Brooded   the    bittern's    cry,    as    one    that 

grieves 
Lands  ancient,  bountiful. 

I  saw  the  fire-flies  shine  below  the  wood, 

Above  the  shallows  dank, 
As  Uriel,  from  some  great  altitude, 

The  planets  rank  on  rank. 


GILBERT   PARKER 


671 


And  now  unseen  along  the  shrouded  mead 

One  went  under  the  hill  ;' 
He  blew  a  cadence  on  his  mellow  reed, 

That  trembled  and  was  still. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  line  of  amber  fire 

Had  shot  the  gathered  dusk, 
As   if    had  blown  a   wind    from   ancient 
Tyre 

Laden  with  myrrh  and  musk. 

He  gave  his  luring  note  amid  the  fern  ; 

Its  enigmatic  fall 

Haunted    the    hollow    dusk   with    golden 
turn 

And  argent  interval. 

I   could  not   know  the   message   that  he 
bore, 

The  springs  of  life  from  me 
Hidden  ;  his  incommunicable  lore 

As  much  a  mystery. 

And  as  I  followed  far  the  magic  player 

He  passed  the  maple  wood, 
And  when  I  passed  the  stars    had    risen 
there, 

And  there  was  solitude. 


LIFE   AND   DEATH 

I  THOUGHT    of    death   beside   the   lonely 

sea 

That  went  beyond  the  limit  of  my  sight, 
Seeming  the  image  of  his  mastery, 
The   semblance :  of   his   huge  and  gloomy 

might. 

But  firm  beneath  the  sea  went  the  great 

earth, 
With  sober  bulk  and  adamantine  hold, 


The  water  but  a  mantle  for  her  girth, 
That  played  about  her  splendor  fold  on  fold. 

And   life   seemed   like  this  dear  familiar 

shore 
That   stretched   from  the  wet  sand's  last 

wavy  crease, 

Beneath  the  sea's  remote  and  sombre  roar, 
To  inland  stillness  and  the  wilds  of  peace. 

Death   seems   triumphant  only   here    and 

there  ; 
Life  is  the  sovereign  presence  everywhere. 


THE   END   OF   THE   DAY 

I  HEAR  the  bells  at  eventide 

Peal  slowly  one  by  one, 
Near  and  far  off  they  break  and  glide, 

Across  the  stream  float  faintly  beauti- 
ful 

The  antiphpnal  bells  of  Hull ; 
The  day  is  done,  done,  done, 
The  day  is  done. 

The  dew  has  gathered  in  the  flowers 

Like  tears  from  some  unconscious  deep, 
The  swallows  whirl  around  the  towers, 

The  light   runs   out  beyond  the  long 

cloud  bars, 

And  leaves  the  single  stars  ; 
'T  is  time  for  sleep,  sleep,  sleep, 
'T  is  time  for  sleep. 

The  hermit  thrush  begins  again, 

Timorous  eremite, 
That  song  of  risen  tears  and  pain, 

As  if  the  one  he  loved  was  far  away  : 
"  Alas  !  another  day  — " 
"  And  now  Good-Night,  Good-Night, " 
"  Good-Night." 


SONNETS  FROM  "A  LOVER'S 
DIARY" 

LOVE'S  OUTSET 

As  one  would  stand  who  saw  a  sudden  light 
Flood  down  the  world,  and  so  encompass 
him, 


And  in  that  world  illumined  Seraphim 
Brooded  above  and  gladdened  to  his  sight ; 
So  stand  I  in  the  flame  of  one  great  thought, 
That  broadens  to  my  soul  from  where  she 

waits, 

Who,  yesterday,  drew  wide  the  inner  gates 
Of  all  my  being  to  the  hopes  I  sought. 


672 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


Her  words  came  to  me  like  a  summer- 
song, 

Blown  from  the  throat  of  some  sweet  night- 
ingale ; 

I  stand  within  her  light  the  whole  day 
long, 

And  think  upon  her  till  the  white  stars 
fail: 

I  lift  my  head  towards  all  that  makes  life 
wise, 

And  see  no  farther  than  my  lady's  eyes. 


A  WOMAN'S  HAND 


NONE  ever  climbed  to  mountain  height  of 

song, 
But  felt  the  touch  of  some  good  woman's 

palm  ; 

None  ever  reached  God's  altitude  of  calm, 
But  heard  one  voice  cry,  "  Follow  !  "  from 

the  throng. 

I  would  not  place  her  as  an  image  high 
Above  my  reach,  cold,  in  some  dim  recess, 
Where    never    she    should    feel    a  warm 

caress 
Of   this   my   hand   that  serves  her  till   I 

die. 

I  would  not  set  her  higher  than  my  heart,  — 
Though  she  is  nobler  than  I  e'er  can  be,  — 
Because  she  placed  me  from  the  crowd 

apart, 

And  with  her  tenderness  she  honored  me. 
Because  of  this,  I  hold  me  worthier 
To  be  her  kinsman,  while  I  worship  her. 


A  WOMAN'S  hand.     Lo,  I  am  thankful  now 
That  with  its  touch  I  have  walked  all  my 

days  ; 

Rising  from  fateful  and  forbidden  ways, 
To  find  a  woman's  hand  upon  my  brow, 
Soft  as  a  pad  of  rose-leaves,  and  as  pure 
As  upraised  palms  of  angels,  seen  in 

dreams  : 

And  soothed  by  it,  to  stand  as  it  beseems 
A  man  who  strives  to  conquer  and  endure. 
A   woman's   hand  !  —  There   is   no   better 

thing 

Of  all  things  human  ;  it  is  half  divine  ; 
It   hath   been   more  to   this   lame  life   of 

mine, 
When  faith  was  weakness,  and  despair  was 

king. 


Man  more  than  all  men,  Thou  wast  glad  to 

bless     • 
A  woman's  sacrifice  and  tenderness. 

ART 


ART'S   use  ;  what  is  it  but   to   touch  the 

springs 

Of  nature  ?     But  to  hold 'a  torch  up  for 
Humanity  in  Life's  large  corridor, 
To   guide   the    feet    of    peasants    and    of 

kings  ! 

What  is  it  but  to  carry  union  through 
Thoughts  alien  to  thoughts  kindred,  and  to 

merge 

The  lines  of  color  that  should  not  diverge, 
And  give  the  sun  a  window  to  shine  through  ! 
What  is  it   but  to  make  the  world  have 

heed 
For  what  its  dull  eyes  else  would  hardly 

scan  ! 
To    draw  in   a  stark    light    a   shameless 

deed, 

And  show  the  fashion  of  a  kingly  man  ! 
To  cherish  honor,  and  to  smite  all  shame, 
To  lend  hearts  voices,  and  give  thoughts  a 

name  1 


BUT  wherein  shall  art  work  ?  Shall  beauty 
lead 

It  captive,  and  set  kisses  on  its  mouth  ? 

Shall  it  be  strained  unto  the  breast  of 
youth, 

And  in  a  garden  live  where  grows  no 
weed? 

Shall  it,  in  dalliance  with  the  flaunting 
world, 

Play  but  soft  airs,  sing  but  sweet-tempered 
songs  ? 

Veer  lightly  from  the  stress  of  all  great 
wrongs, 

And  lisp  of  peace  'mid  battle-flags  un- 
furled ? 

Shall  it  but  pluck  the  sleeve  of  wanton- 
ness, 

And  gently  chide  the  folly  of  our  time  ? 

But  wave  its  golden  wand  at  sin's  duress, 

And  say,  "  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  "  to  fallow 
crime  ? 

Nay;  Art  serves  Truth,  and  Truth,  with 
Titan  blows, 

Strikes  fearless  at  all  evil  that  it  knows. 


E.   PAULINE  JOHNSON 


673 


INVINCIBLE 

WHY,  let  them  rail  !     God's  full  anointed 

ones 
Have  heard  the  world  exclaim,  "  We  know 

you  not !  " 
They  who  by  their  soul's  travailing  have 

brought 

Us  nearer  to  the  wonder  of  the  suns. 
Yet,  who  can  stay  the  passage  of  the  stars  ? 
Who    can    prevail    against    the    thunder- 
sound  ? 

The  wire  that  flashes  lightning  to  the  ground 
Diverts,  but  not  its  potency  debars. 
So,  men  may  strike  quick  stabs  at  Caesar's 

worth,  — 

They  only  make  his  life  an  endless  force, 
'Scaped  from  its  penthouse,  flashing  through 

the  earth, 
And  whelming  those  who  railed  about  hia 

corse. 
Men's  moods  disturb  not  those  born  truly 

great  : 
They  know  their  end ;  they  can  afford  to 

wait. 


ENVOY 

WHEN  you  and  I  have  played  the  little 

hour, 
Have    seen    the    tali    subaltern    Life    to 

Death 
Yield  up   his  sword  ;  and,  smiling,  draw 

the  breath, 
The  first  long  breath  of  freedom  ;  when 

the  flower 
Of     Recompense    hath    fluttered    to    our 

feet, 

As  to  an  actor's  ;  and  the  curtain  down, 
We  turn  to  face  each  other  all  alone  — 
Alone,  we  two,  who  never  yet  did  meet, 
Alone,  and  absolute,  and  free  :  oh,  then, 
Oh,  then,  most  dear,  how  shall  be  told  the 

tale? 
Clasped  hands,  pressed  lips,  and  so  clasped 

hands  again  ; 
No  words.     But  as  the  proud  wind  fills  the 

sail, 
My  love   to  yours   shall  reach,  then   one 

deep  moan 
Of  joy  ;  and  then  our  infinite  Alone. 


THE   SONG    MY   PADDLE    SINGS 

WEST  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest, 
Blow  from  the  mountains,  blow  from  the 

west. 
The  sail  is  idle,  the  sailor  too  ; 

0  wind  of  the  west,  we  wait  for  you  ! 
Blow,  blow  ! 

1  have  wooed  you  so, 

But  never  a  favor  you  bestow. 

You  rock  your  cradle  the  hills  between, 

But  scorn  to  notice  my  white  lateen. 

I  stow  the  sail  and  unship  the  mast  : 

I  wooed  you  long,  but  my  wooing  '9  past ; 

My  paddle  will  lull  you  into  rest : 

O  drowsy  wind  of  the  drowsy  west, 

Sleep,  sleep ! 

By  your  mountains  steep, 

Or  down  where  the  prairie  grasses  sweeps 

Now  fold  in  slumber  your  laggard  wings, 

For  soft  is  the  song  my  paddle  sings. 


August  is  laughing  across  the  sky, 

Laughing  while  paddle,  canoe  and  I 

Drift,  drift, 

Where  the  hills  uplift 

On  either  side  of  the  current  swift. 

The  river  rolls  in  its  rocky  bed, 

My  paddle  is  plying  its  way  ahead, 

Dip,  dip, 

When  the  waters  flip 

In  foam  as  over  their  breast  we  slip. 

And  oh,  the  river  runs  swifter  now  ; 

The  eddies  circle  about  my  bow  : 

Swirl,  swirl  ! 

How  the  ripples  curl 

In  many  a  dangerous  pool  awhirl  ! 

And  far  to  forward  the  rapids  roar, 

Fretting  their  margin  for  evermore  ; 

Dash,  dash, 

With  a  mighty  crash, 

They  seethe  and  boil  and  bound  and  splash. 


674 


DOMINION   OF  CANADA 


Be  strong,  O  paddle  !  be  brave,  canoe  ! 

The  reckless  waves  you  must  plunge  into. 

Reel,  reel, 

On  your  trembling  keel, 

But  never  a  fear  my  craft  will  feel. 

We  've  raced  the  rapids  ;  we  're  far  ahead  : 

The  river  slips  through  its  silent  bed. 

Sway,  sway, 

As  the  bubbles  spray 

And  fall  in  tinkling  tunes  away. 

And  up  on  the  hills  against  the  sky, 

A  fir  tree  rocking  its  lullaby 

Swings,  swings, 

Its  emerald  wings, 

Swelling  the  song  that  my  paddle  sings. 

AT   HUSKING   TIME 

AT  husking  time  the  tassel  fades 
To  brown  above  the  yellow  blades 

Whose  rustling  sheath  enswathes  the  corn 
That  bursts  its  chrysalis  in  scorn 
Longer  to  lie  in  prison  shades. 

Among  the  merry  lads  and  maids 
The  creaking  ox-cart  slowly  wades 
'Twixt  stalks  and  stubble,  sacked,  and  torn 
At  husking  time. 

The  prying  pilot  crow  persuades 
The  flock  to  join  in  thieving  raids  ; 
The  sly  raccoon  with  craft  inborn 
His  portion  steals,  —  from  plenty's  horn 
His  pouch  the  saucy  chipmunk  lades 
At  husking  time. 

THE  VAGABONDS 

WHAT  saw  you  in  your  flight  to-day, 
Crows  a-wiuging  your  homeward  way  ? 


Went  you  far  in  carrion  quest, 
Crows  that  worry  the  sunless  west  ? 

Thieves    and    villains,   you    shameless 

things  I 
Black  your  record  as  black  your  wings 

Tell  me,  birds  of  the  inky  hue, 
Plunderous  rogues  —  to-day  have  you 

Seen  with  mischievous,  prying  eyes 
Lands  where  earlier  suns  arise  ? 

Saw  you  a  lazy  beck  between 

Trees  that  shadow  its  breast  in  green, 

Teased  by  obstinate  stones  that  lie 
Crossing  the  current  tauntingly  ? 

Fields  abloom  on  the  farther  side 
With  purpling  clover  lying  wide, 

Saw  you  there  as  you  circled  by, 
Vale-environed  a  cottage  lie  — 

Girt  about  with  emerald  bands, 
Nestling  down  in  its  meadow  lands  ? 

Saw  you  this  on  your  thieving  raids  ? 
Speak  —  you  rascally  renegades. 

Thieved  you  also  away  from  me 
Olden  scenes  that  I  long  to  see  ? 

If  O  crows  !  you  have  flown  since  morn 
Over  the  place  where  I  was  born, 

Forget,  will  I,  how  black  you  were 
Since  dawn,  in  feather  and  character  ; 

Absolve,  will  I,  your  vagrant  band, 
Ere  you  enter  your  slumber-land. 


SNOWSHOEING   SONG 

HlTLOO,  hilloo,  hiiloo,  hilloo  ! 

Gather,  gather,  ye  men  in  white  ; 

The  winds  blow  keenly,  the  moon  is  bright, 

The  sparkling  snow  lies  firm  and  white ; 

Tie  on  the  shoes,  no  time  to  lose, 

We  must  be  over  the  hill  to-night. 


Wtit 

Hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo  ! 
Swiftly  in  single  file  we  go, 
The  city  is  soon  left  far  below, 
Its  countless  lights  like  diamonds  glow  ; 
And  as  we  climb  we  hear  the  chime 
Of    church    bells    stealing    o'er    the 
snow. 


675 


Hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo  !  » 

Like  winding-sheet  about  the  dead,         ( 
O'er  hill  and  dale  the  snow  is  spread, 
And  silences  our  hurried  tread  ; 
The  pines  bend  low,  and  to  and  fro 
The  magpies  toss  their  boughs  o'erhead. 

Hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo  ! 
We  laugh  to  scorn  the  angry  blast, 
The  mountain  top  is  gained  and  past. 
Descent  begins,  't  is  ever  fast  — 
One  short  quick  run,  and  toil  is  done, 
We  reach  the  welcome  inn  at  last. 

Shake  off,  shake  off  the  clinging  snow  ; 
Unloose  the  shoe,  the  sash  untie, 
Fling  tuque  and  mittens  lightly  by  ; 


The  chimney  fire  is  blazing  high, 
And,  richly  stored,  the  festive  board 
Awaits  the  merry  company. 

Remove  the  fragments  of  the  feast ! 
The  steaming  coffee,  waiter,  bring 
Now  tell  the  tale,  the  chorus  sing, 
And  let  the  laughter  loudly  ring  ; 
Here 's  to  our  host,  drink  down  the  toast. 
Then  up  !  for  time  is  on  the  wing. 

Hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo  ! 
The  moon  is  sinking  out  of  sight, 
Across  the  sky  dark  clouds  take  fligh.,, 
And  dimly  looms  the  mountain  height ; 
Tie  on  the  shoes,  no  time  to  lose, 
We  must  be  home  again  to-night. 


THE   WIND    OF   DEATH 

THE  wind  of  death  that  softly  blows 
The  last  warm  petal  from  the  rose, 
The  last  dry  leaf  from  off  the  tree, 
To-night  has  come  to  breathe  on  me. 

There  was  a  time  I  learned  to  hate, 
As  weaker  mortals  learn  to  love  ; 
The  passion  held  me  fixed  as  fate, 
Burned  in  my  veins  early  and  late, 
But  now  a  wind  falls  from  above  — 

The  wind  of  death  that  silently 
Enshroudeth  friend  and  enemy. 

There  was  a  time  my  soul  was  thrilled 
By  keen  ambition's  whip  and  spur  ; 
My  master  forced  me  where  he  willed, 
And  with  his  power  my  life  was  filled, 
But  now  the  old  time  pulses  stir 

How  faintly  in  the  wind  of  death, 
That  bloweth  lightly  as  a  breath  ! 

And  once,  but  once  at  Love's  dear  feet, 

I  yielded  strength,  and  life,  and  heart ; 
His  look  turned  bitter  into  sweet, 
His  smile  made  all  the  world  complete  ; 
The  wind  blows  loves  like  leaves  apart  — 


The  wind  of  death  that  tenderly 
Is  blowing  'twixt  my  love  and  me. 

0  wind  of  death,  that  darkly  blows 
Each  separate  ship  of  human  woes 
Far  out  on  a  mysterious  sea, 

1  turn,  I  turn  my  face  to  thee. 


THE    HOUSE   OF   THE   TREES 

OPE  your  doors  and  take  me  in, 

Spirit  of  the  wood, 
Wash  me  clean  of  dust  and  din, 

Clothe  me  in  your  mood. 

Take  me  from  the  noisy  light 

To  the  sunless  peace, 
Where  at  mid  day  standeth  Night 

Signing  Toil's  release. 

All  your  dusky  twilight  stores 

To  my  senses  give  ; 
Take  me  in  and  lock  the  doors, 

Show  me  how  to  live. 

Lift  your  leafy  roof  for  me, 
Part  your  yielding  walls  : 

Let  me  wander  lingeringly 
Through  your  scented  halls. 


DOMINION   OF   CANADA 


Ope  your  doors  and  take  me  in, 

Spirit  of  the  wood  ; 
Take  me  —  make  me  next  of  kin 

To  your  leafy  brood. 


THE   SNOW   STORM 

THE  great  soft  downy  snow  storm  like  a 

cloak 
Descends  to  wrap  the  lean  world  head  to 

feet; 

It  gives  the  dead  another  winding  sheet, 
It  buries  all  the  roofs  until  the  smoke 
Seems  like  a  soul  that  from  its  clay  has 

broke. 
It  broods   moon-like    upon    the    Autumn 

wheat, 

And  visits  all  the  trees  in  their  retreat 
To  hood  and  mantle  that  poor  shivering 

folk. 


With   wintry   bloom  it  fills   the  harshest 

grooves 
In    jagged    pine    stump    fences.       Every 

sound 

It  hushes  to  the  footstep  of  a  nun. 
Sweet  Charity  !  that   brightens   where   it 

moves 

Inducing  darkest  bits  of  churlish  ground 
To  give  a  radiant  answer  to  the  sun. 


TO   FEBRUARY 

BUILD  high  your  white  and  dazzling  pal- 
aces, 
Strengthen   your  bridges,  fortify    your 

towers, 

Storm  with  a  loud  and  a  portentous  lip. 
And  April  with  a  fragmentary  breeze, 
And  half  a  score  of  gentle  golden  hours, 
Will    leave   no   trace   of    your   atern 
workmanship. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


These  Notes  are  restricted,  for  the  most  part,  to  the  simplest  biographical  data  concerning  the  poets  quoted 
in  this  volume,  with  mention  of  their  leading  works.  In  "Victorian  Poets"  —  the  book,  by  the  present  edi- 
tor, to  which  "  A  Victorian  Anthology  "  is  adapted  —  a  critical  review  is  essayed  of  those  among  the  following 
authors  who  became  known  earlier  than  the  fiftieth  year  of  Her  Majesty's  reign. 

Where  records  of  birth,  death,  etc.,  differ  from  those  previously  accepted,  there  is  good  authority  for  the 
statements  made, 


ADAMS,  Sarah  Fuller  (Flower),  b.  Har- 
low,  1805 ;  d.  1848.  Daughter  of  Benjamin 
Flower,  journalist  and  politician.  In  1834  she 
married  William  Bridges  Adams.  Was  con- 
nected with  the  religious  society  at  Finsbury, 
under  the  care  of  William  Johnson  Fox.  "  Vi- 
via  Perpetua,"  her  dramatic  poem,  was  pub- 
lished in  1S41. 

ADDLESHAW,  Percy,  barrister,  b.  Bow- 
den,  Cheshire,  186-.  Was  graduated  at  Christ- 
church,  Oxford.  Was  called  to  the  bar,  181)3. 
Has  written  articles,  poems,  and  reviews  for 
various  publications,  and  under  the  pseudonym 
of  "Percy  Hemingway"  published  "Out  of 
Egypt,"  a  volume  of  short  stories,  1894,  and 
"  The  Happy  Wanderer  and  other  Poems," 
1895. 

AIDE.  C.  Hamilton,  dramatist  and  song- 
writer, b.  Paris,  1829.  Educated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Bonn.  Has  written  a  number  of 
novels,  and  is  well  known  as  the  author  of  many 
favorite  songs,  set  to  music  by  Blumenthal  and 
others.  His  "  Eleonore,  and  other  Poems"  ap- 
peared in  1N~,6 ;  ''  The  Romance  of  the  Scarlet 
Leaf,  and  other  Poems,"  1865;  "  Songs  without 
Music,"  1882. 

AIHD,  Thomas,  journalist,  b.  Bowden, 
1802  ;  d.,  Castle  Bank,  Dumfries,  1*76.  Edu- 
cated at  Edinburgh  University.  Editor  of  the 
"  Dumfries  Herald  "  and  later  of  the  "  Edin- 
burgh Weekly  Journal."  In  1852  brought  out 
the  works  of  D.  M.  Moir,  with  a  memoir,  and 
in  1850  a  collective  edition  of  his  own  poems. 
Contributor  to  "  Blackwood's." 

ALEXANDER,  Cecil  Frances  (Hum- 
phries .  b.  Strabane,  Ireland,  182— .  Daughter  of 
Major  Humphries.  Married  Rev.  William  Al- 
exander, afterwards  Bishop  of  Derry,  in  1850. 
Her  publications,  consisting  of  stories  and 

ems  for  children,  were  issued   anonymously. 


Edited  the  "  Sunday  Book  of  Poetry,"  of  the 
"Golden  Treasury"  Series.  D.  Londonderry, 
1895. 


ALFORD,  Henry,  divine,  b.  London,  1810 ; 
d.  Canterbury,  1871.  Educated  at  Trinity 
College,  where  he  took  a  fellowship  in  1834. 
From  1853  to  1857  preached  in  the  Quebec 
Street  Chapel.  In  IS"  succeeded  to  the  dean- 
ery of  Cantorb-iry.  First  editor  of  the  "  Con- 
temporary Review,"  and  author  of  a  stan- 
dard critical  edition  of  the  Greek  Testament. 
The  fourth  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in 
1865. 

ALLINGHAM,  William,  editor  and  bal- 
ladist,  b.  Ballyshannon,  1824 ;  d.  Whitby,  1889. 
Contributed  to  the  "Athenaeum"  and  other 
periodicals,  and  edited  "  Fraser."  In  1850  his 
first  volume,  "  Poems,"  appeared,  and  in  1855 
an  enlarged  edition  of  "  Day  and  Night  Songs," 
illustrated  by  Rossetti,  Millais,  and  A.  Hughes, 
Author  of  "Songs,  Poems  and  Ballads,"  1877  ; 
"Evil  May-Day,"  1883;  "Ashby  Manor,"  a 
drama,  1883  ;  and  "  Blackberries,"  1884. 

ANDERSON.  Alexander,  railway  laborer, 
b.  Kirkconnel,  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  1845^ 
Adopted  the  pseudonym  of  "  Surfaceman,"  and 
has  published  "Songs  of  Labor,"  1873;  "The 
Two  Angels  and  other  Poems  :  with  Introduc- 
tory Sketch  by  George  Gilfillan,"  1875  ;  "  Songs 
of  the  Rail,"  1877,  1881 ;  "  Ballads  and  Son- 
nets," 1879. 

ARMSTRONG,  Ck  F.— See  G.  F.  Savage- 
Armstrong. 

ARNOLD,  Sir  Edwin,  editor  and  Sanscrit 
scholar,  b.  Sussex,  1832.  Educated  at  King's 
College.  London,  and  University  College,  Ox- 
ford. Was  made  Principal  of  the  Government 
Sanscrit  College  at  Poona  and  Fellow  of  the 
University  of  Bombay.  In  18(il  he  returned  to 
England  and  went  on  the  staff  of  the  London 
"  Daily  Telegraph,"  during  his  connection  with 
which  he  brought  about  the  expedition  of 
George  Smith  to  Assyria  in  1873,  and  that  of 
Henry  M.  Stanley  to  Africa  in  1874.  When 
the  Queen  was  proclaimed  Empress  of  India, 
he  was  named  a  Companion  of  the  Star  of 


68o 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


India ;  the  King  of  Siani  conferred  upon  him 
the  decoration  of  the  Order  of  the  White 
Elephant ;  and  in  1876  he  received  the  Second 
Class  of  the  Imperial  Order  of  the  Medjidie 
from  the  Sultan  of  Turkey.  Visited  America, 
1892,  and  gave  readings  from  his  poems.  As 
will  be  seen  from  the  following  list  of  his  prin- 
cipal poetical  works,  he  has  devoted  his  muse 
to  the  idealization .  of  the  Oriental  legendary, 
and  especially  the  Buddhist  faith,  making  this 
a  field  of  his  own,  as  compared  with  any  Eng- 
lish poet  since  Sir  William  Jones.  Was 
knighted  by  the  Queen  in  1888.  Author  of 
"  Poems  Narrative  and  Lyrical,"  1853 ;  "  Gri- 
selda  and  other  Poems,"  1856  ;  "The  Poets  of 
Greece,"  1869;  "The  Light  of  Asia,"  1879: 
"  Indian  Poetry,"  1881 ;  "  Pearls  of  the  Faith,'5 
1883;  "India  Revisited,"  1886;  "Lotus  and 
Jewel,"  1887  ;  "  The  Light  of  the  World,"  1891 ; 
"Japonica,"  1891;  "  Potiphar's  Wife  and 
other  Poems,"  1892 ;  "  The  Tenth  Muse,"  1895. 

ARNOLD,  Matthew,  critic  of  life,  letters, 
and  belief,  b.  Laleham,  24  December,  1822 ; 
d.  Liverpool,  15  April,  1888.  Eldest  son  of 
Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  the  renowned  master  of 
Rugby.  Educated  at  Winchester,  Rugby,  and 
Balliol  College,  Oxford.  Scholar  of  Balliol, 
1840 ;  winner  of  the  Newdigate  prize  by  his 
poem  of  "  Cromwell,"  1843 ;  Fellow  of  Oriel 
College,  1845.  Professor  of  Poetry,  Oxford, 
1857-67.  Eminently  a  university  man  and 
equally  an  independent  thinker,  he  made  and 
retained  his  hold  on  Oxford  thought  as  no  other 
man  of  his  generation,  arousing  younger  minds 
to  a  fine  enthusiasm.  Was  a  comrade  of 
Clough,  —  the  subject  of  his  poem,  ' '  The 
Scholar  Gypsy,"  and  of  the  pastoral  elegy, 
"Thyrsis," —  and  with  him  experienced  the 
unsettling  effect  of  the  Tractarian  movement. 
A  noble  melancholy  thenceforth  tinged  his 
writings.  He  arrived  at  something  like  agnos- 
ticism, and  warred  against  dogma  of  every 
kind  ;  but  emancipated  thought,  and  was  the 
rebuker  of  vulgarity  and  the  apostle  of  true 
culture.  Was  the  greatest  of  Victorian  crit- 
ics, as  may  be  seen  from  his  lectures  "  On  Trans- 
lating Homer,"  1861-  "Celtic  Literature," 
1868,  etc. ;  and  from  his  typical  books  of  so- 
cial and  theological  criticism  :  "  Culture  and 
Anarchy,"  1869;  "St.  Paul  and  Protestant- 
ism," 1870 ;  "Literature  and  Dogma,"  1873; 
"  Literature  and  Science,"  1882.  His  earliest 
poems  were  "  The  Strayed  Reveller,"  etc., 
1848;  "Empedocles  on  Etna,"  1855.  These 
were  followed  by  "  Merope,"  1861 ;  "  New 
Poems,"  1868.  The  prefaces  to  some  of  his 
own  editions,  and  to  editions  of  Wordsworth 
and  Byron,  are  of  the  highest  order.  For 
years  he  held  official  positions  as  Inspector 
of  Schools  and  Commissioner  on  Education. 
Received  the  following  degrees  :  LL.  D.,  Ed- 
inburgh, 1869  ;  Oxford,  1870 ;  Cambridge,  1883. 
Cp.  "  Victorian  Poets,"  chaps,  iii,  xii.  [E.  c.  s.] 

ASHBY-STERRY,  Joseph,  essayist,  poet, 
and  novelist,  b.  London,  1838.  Resident  in  Lon- 
don, where  he  is  an  authority  on  matters  con- 


nected with  pleasure-boating  on  the  Thames,  of 
which  he  has  always  been  an  ardent  devotee. 
Much  of  his  writing  is  related  to  his  out-door 
life.  Besides  his  contributions  to  magazines,  he 
has  written  regularly  for  the  press,  and  is  a 
member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  the  London 
"  Graphic."  Among  his  best  known  works  are 
"Shuttlecock  Papers,"  1873  ;  "  Tiny  Travels," 
1874;  "Boudoir  Ballads,"  1876;  "Cucumber 
Chronicles,"  1887  ;  "  The  Lazy  Minstrel,"  1887  : 
"  Nutshell  Novels-,"  1890  ;  "  A  Naughty  Girl,'5 
1893. 

ASHE,  Thomas,  instructor,  b.  Stockport, 
Cheshire,  1836;  d.  1889.  Was  graduated  at 
St.  John's,  Cambridge  ;  was  ordained  and  be- 
came a  teacher.  Afterwards  was  curate  of 
S^verstorn,  Northamptonshire,  but  in  a  short 
time  resigned  and  resumed  teaching.  Author 
of  several  volumes  of  verse,  the  first  appearing 
in  1859.  Published  a  drama,  "  The  Sorrows 
of  Hypsipyle."  "Songs  Now  and  Then"  ap- 
peared in  1875,  and  in  1886  a  complete  edition  of 
his  poems  was  issued. 

AUSTIN,  Alfred,  journalist  and  critic,  b. 
Headingley,  near  Leeds,  1835.  Educated  at 
Stonyhurst,  and  at  St.  Mary's  College,  Oscott. 
Took  a  degree  at  the  University  of  London, 
1853 ;  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1857,  but  de- 
voted himself  almost  entirely  to  literature. 
Has  been  a  writer  for  the  "  Standard  "  and  the 
"  Quarterly  Review,"  and  editor  of  the  "Na- 
tional Review.''  Author  of  notable  criticism 
on  "The  Poetry  of  the  Period,"  of  various 
essays,  three  novels,  and  of  many  volumes  of 
poems  and  poetic  dramas.  Among  the  latter 
are :  "  The  Human  Tragedy,"  1872,  1876  ^'Sa- 
vonarola," 1881;  "At  the  Gate  of  the  Con- 
vent," 1885  ;  "  English  Lyrics,"  1890  ;  "  Prince 
Lucifer,"  1891;  "Narrative  Poems,"  1891; 
"  Fortunatus  the  Pessimist,"  1892.  See  p.  710. 

AYTOUN,  "William  Edmonstoune,  pro- 
fessor, b.  Edinburgh,  1813  ;  d.  Blackhills,  near 
Elgin,  1865.  Author  of  "Lays  of  the  Scottish 
Cavaliers,"  1848,  and  many  other  poems,  and 
also  of  stories  published  in  "  Blackwood's." 
He  was  at  one  time  a  member  of  the  staff  of 
"  Blackwood's  "  and  then  professor  of  rhetoric 
and  belles-lettres  in  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh. In  addition  to  his  other  literary  la- 
bors, he  collected  and  annotated  the  ballads  of 
Scotland.  "Firmilian,"  1854,  was  a  brilliant 
take-off,  satirizing  the  "Spasmodic  School" 
of  poetry.  The  racy  "  Bon  Gualtier's  Book  of 
Ballads,"  1856,  was  the  joint  work  of  Aytoun 
and  Sir  Theo.  Martin. 

BAILEY,  Philip  James,  barrister,  b.  Not- 
tingham, 1816.  Studied  at  the  University  of 
Glasgow.  Admitted  to  the  bar  in  1840.  "  Fes- 
tus,"  his  extended  poem,  was  first  published  in 
1839,  and,  after  it  had  passed  through  a  great 
number  of  editions,  the  enlarged  "Jubilee  Edi- 
tion "  was  brought  out  in  1889,  and  included 
most  of  his  other  poems,  viz.  :  "  The  Angel 
World."  1850;  "  The  Mystic,"  "The  Spiritual 
Legend,"  and  "The  Universal  Hymn,"  1868. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


681 


BALLANTINE,  James,  artist,  b.  Edin- 
burgh, 1808  ;  d.  1877.  Published  "  The  Gaber- 
luiizie's  WaUet,"  1843;  "The  Miller  of  Dear- 
baugh,"  and  a  collective  edition  of  his  poems, 
in  1856.  Known  also  as  a  painter  on  glass. 
Some  of  his  art  work  may  be  found  in  West- 
minster Palace. 

BANIM.  John,  dramatist  and  novelist,  b. 
Kilkenny,  1798;  d.  1842.  With  his  brother 
Michael,  wrote  a  series  of  novels  dealing  with 
Irish  life.  "  Tales  of  the  O'Hara  Family  "  viv- 
idly portray  the  condition  of  the  Irish  peasantry. 
His  few  poems  are  published  chiefly  in  a  volume 
entitled  The  Chant  of  the  Cholera :  Songs  for 
the  Irish  People." 

B  ARHAM,  Richard  Harris,  clerical  wit,  b. 
Canterbury,  1788  ;  d.  1845.  Known  as  "  Thomas 
Ingoldsby,"  and  contributed  a  series  of  quaint 
and  comical  stories  in  rhyme,  "  The  Ingoldsby 
Legends,"  to  "  Bentley's  Miscellany.''  These 
were  afterwards  collected  in  book  form,  and 
are  still  famous  in  their  kind.  Also  wrote  a 
novel,  "  My  Cousin  Nicholas."  Appointed  mi- 
nor canon  of  St.  Paul's  and  became  vicar  of 
the  City  churches  of  St.  Augustine  and  St. 
Faith. 

BARING-GOULD,  Sabine,  clergvman,  b. 
Exeter,  1834.  Took  the  degree  of  M.  A.  at 
'  Clare  College,  Cambridge,  1856.  Appointed  in- 
cumbent of  Dalton,  Thirsh,  1;~,()9,  and  rector  of 
East  Mersea,  Colchester,  1871.  In  1881  be- 
came rector  of  Lew-Trenchard.  Has  written 
extensively  on  religious  subjects,  and  of  late 

Sjars  has  become  well  known  as  a  novelist, 
rought  out  a  volume  of  poems  in  1868. 

BARLOW,  George,  b.  London,  1847.  Edu- 
cated at  Harrow  School  and  at  Exeter  College, 
Oxford.  His  first  book,  "  Poems  and  Sonnets," 
1871,  appeared  while  he  was  an  undergraduate. 
Since  then,  a  fluent  lyrical  writer,  he  has  writ- 
ten many  volumes  of  poetry,  of  which  "  The 
Pageant  of  Life,"  1888,  has  gained  the  most 
attention. 

BARLOW,  Jane,  b.  Clontarf,  County  Dub- 
lin, 1860,  in  which  locality  she  has  always  re- 
sided. Daughter  of  the  Rev.  James  Ba'rlow, 
of  Dublin  University.  Her  verses  picturing 
Irish  life  and  sentiment  have  been  issued  in 
both  England  and  the  United  States.  "  Bog- 
land  Studies,"  her  first  book,  was  published  in 
189-2.-  This  was  followed  by  "Irish  Idyls," 
1893;  "Kerrigan's  Quality,"  1894.  Encour- 
aged by  the  favor  awarded  to  these  sketches 
and  poems,  Miss  Barlow  is  engaged  upon  other 
work.  "  The  End  of  Elfintown,"  a  fairy  tale 
in  verse,  and  an  English  rendering  of  the  "  Ba- 
trachomyomachia,"  are  announced  for  publica- 
tion. 

BARNES,  William,  clergyman,  b.  Dorset, 
1801 ;  d.  1886.  Was  an  engraver  in  his  youth, 
but  meanwhile  took  up  tha  study  of  Oriental 
languages.  In  1847  became  curate  of  Whit- 
combe,  and  in  1862  rector  of  Winterbourne 
Came.  His  poems  in  Dorset  dialect  were  pub- 
lished in  1844,  and  again  in  1856.  "  Poems  of 


Rural  Life,"  1868,  is  a  translation  into  ordinary 
English  of  some  of  his  unpublished  poems. 
Was  author,  also,  of  important  works  bearing 
on  philology  and  early  English  history. 

BAYLY,  Thomas  Haynes,  song-writer,  b. 
Bath,  1797  ;  d.  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  1839.  Stud- 
ied theology  and  law.  Began  writing  poetry 
when  young.  At  one  time  his  ballads  were 
quite  popular  among  the  English  upper  classes  ; 
some  of  the  best  known  are,  "  The  Rose  that 
all  are  Praising,"  "  0,  no  !  We  never  mention 
Her,"  and  "  Gaily  the  Troubadour." 

BEACONSFIELD,  Benjamin  Disraeli, 
Earl  of,  novelist,  statesman,  and  Premier  or 
the  Realm,  b.  London,  1804  ;  d.  London,  1881. 
Educated  under  tutors.  Entered  Parliament, 
1837.  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  in  1852  and 
again  in  1858,  and  prime  minister  in  1868  and 
1874-80.  In  1877  was  raised  to  the  peerage 
and  created  Earl  of  Beaconsfield.  His  novels, 
"Coningsby,"  1844,  and  "Sybil,"  1845,  revo- 
lutionized certain  political  methods  of  the  time 
and  gave  him  a  brilliant  reputation  as  a  novel- 
ist of  politics  and  high-life  which  he  maintained 
to  his  closing  years,  "Lothair."  1870,  having 
been  read  still  more  widely  than  his  earlier 
works.  "The  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy"  ap- 
peared in  1833;  "Rise  of  Iskander  "  and  the 
"  Revolutionary  Epic,"  1834 ;  "  Tragedy  of 
Count  Alarcos,"  1^39.  "  Endymion, "  his  last 
novel,  was  issued  in  1880. 

BEATTY,  Pakenham  Thomas,  b.  1855. 
Author  of  "To  my  Lady."  1878;  "Three 
Women  of  the  People,"  lt<vi;  and  "Marcia,  a 
Tragedy,"  1884. 

BEDDOES,  Thomas  Lovell,  physiologist, 
b.  Clifton,  1803;  d.  Basle,  Switzerland,  1849. 
Son  of  Thomas  Beddoes,  M.  D.,  an  eminent 
savant.  Took  his  degree  at  Pembroke  College, 
Oxford ;  adopted  his  father's  profession,  but 
having  means,  studied  in  Germany  and  mas- 
tered and  advanced  the  science  of  physiology. 
A  precocious  genius,  he  wrote  plays  and  lyrics 
while  yet  a  youth,  publishing  "  The  Bride's 
Tragedy  "  in  1822.  This  gained  the  critical  fa- 
vor of  George  Darley,  like  whom  he  was  indeed 
"a  belated  Elizabethan."  The  maturer  and 
more  powerful  drama,  "  Death's  Jest  Book," 
appeared  after  his  death,  in  the  Pickering  col- 
lection of  his  plays  and  poems,  1851. 

BEECHING,  Henry  Charles,  clergyman, 
b.  185-.  Rector  of  Yattendon,  Berks.  Edited 
some  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  in  conjunction 
with  J.  W.  Mackail  and  J.  B.  B.  Nichols  wrote 
''Love  in  Idleness,"  published  in  1883,  and 
"  Love's  Looking  Glass,"  1891,  both  volumes 
of  verse.  Author  of  "  In  a  Garden,"  a  volume 
of  lyrics,  1895. 

BELL,  H.  T.  Mackenzie,  critic,  b.  Liver- 
pool, 1856.  He  has  had  an  active  literary  ca- 
reer, contributing  to  the  "  Academy  "  and  other 
periodicals,  and  writing  many  critical  and  bio- 
graphical notices  of  Victorian  authors.  Has 
published  in  verse  "  The  Keeping  of  the  Vow," 
1879;  "Verses  of  Varied  Life,"  1882-  "Old 


682 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


Year  Leaves,"  1883.  In  1884  brought  out  a 
biographical  and  critical  monograph  on  Charles 
Whitehead,  of  which  an  enlarged  edition  has 
since  appeared.  "  Spring's  Immortality  and 
other  Poems  "  was  issued  in  1893.  Is  now  about 
to  publish  a  monograph  on  Christina  Rossetti. 

BENNETT,  William  Cox,  journalist,  b. 
Greenwich,  1820.  Has  always  taken  an  active 
interest  in  educational  matters  and  in  the  estab- 
lishment of  local  institutions  for  the  benefit  of 
the  people.  Has  written  several  volumes  of 
verse,  the  first  of  which  appeared  in  1843.  Was 
a  member  of  the  staff  of  the  "  Weekly  Dis- 
patch," the  London  "  Figaro,"  and  other  peri- 
odicals. Received  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from 
the  University  of  Tusculum  in  1869.  D.  1895. 

BENSON,  Arthur  Christopher,  educator, 
b.  Wellington  College  (of  which  his  father  was 
then  head-master),  Wokingham,  1862.  Eldest 
surviving  son  of  Edward  White  Benson,  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury.  Educated  at  Eton  and 
King's  College,  Cambridge.  Took  a  first  class 
in  the  Classical  Tripos,  1884.  Assistant  master 
at  Eton  College,  1885,  a  position  which  he  still 
holds.  Has  published  "  Memoirs  of  Arthur 
Hamilton,"  1886,  under  the  pseudonym  of 
"  Christopher  Carr  ;  "  "  Life  of  Archbishop 
Laud,"  1887;  "  Poems,"  1893  ;  "  Lyrics,"  1885. 

BESANT,  Sir  Walter.  See  Addenda,  p. 
710. 

BLACKIE,  John  Stuart,  professor,  b.  Glas- 
gow, 1S09  ;  d.  1895.  Educated  at  Aberdeen  and 
Edinburgh  Universities  ;  also  studied  in  Ger- 
many and  Italy.  In  1841  became  Professor  of 
Humanity  at  Marischal  College,  Aberdeen,  and 
in  1^52  Professor  of  Greek  in  the  University 
of  Edinburgh.  Author  of  "Homer  and  the 
Iliad,"  1868,  and  "  Lays  and  Legends  of  Ancient 
Greece,"  1869.  In  1860  his  "Lyrical  Poems  " 
appeared,  and  in  1869  "  Musa  Burschicosa,"  a 
book  of  rollicking  student  songs.  Much  sturdy 
and  characteristic  verse  came  from  the  pen  of 
this  fine  old  Greek  and  German  scholar.  His 
nature  was  of  a  Scotch-Homeric  cast,  his  person 
and  manner  not  to  be  forgotten,  and  he  left  his 
impress  upon  all  who  came  within  his  range. 

BLAIKIE,  John  Arthur,  b.  London,  1850. 
Was  on  the  staff  of  the  "  Saturday  Review." 
Published  his  first  book,  "  Poems  by  Two 
Friends,"  with  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse. 

BLANCHARD,  Laman.  journalist  and  hu- 
morist, b.  Great  Yarmouth,  1804  ;  d.  1845.  Be- 
came secretary  to  the  Zoological  Society  in 
1827.  Issued  his  first  book  of  poems,  1828. 
Wrote  for  many  magazines  and  papers ;  editor 
of  the  "  Courier"  and  sub-editor  of  the  "  Exam- 
iner." In  1876  an  edition  of  his  poems  was 
published,  with  a  memoir  by  Blanchard  Jerrold. 

BLAND,  Edith  (Nesbit),  b.  1858.  Wrote 
verses  before  her  twelfth  year.  Her  first  pub- 
lished poems  appeared  in  the  "  Sunday  Maga- 
zine" and  "Good  Words."  In  1879  married 
Mr.  Bland.  Published  "  Lays  and  Legends," 
1886,  and  "  Leaves  of  Life,"  1888.  Has  also 


been  a  successful  writer  of  children's  stories 
and  verse. 

BLEW,  William  John,  clergyman,  b.  about 
1806  ;  d.  1894.  Was  graduated  at  Wadham  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  1830 ;  ordained,  1832.  Has  pub- 
lished several  religious  works. 

BLIND,  Mathilde,  b.  1850.  A  noteworthy 
article  on  Shelley  which  appeared  in  the  "  West- 
minster Review  "  was  her  first  published  work. 
"The  Prophecy  of  Oran,"  a  narrative  poem, 
was  issued  in  1881;  "Heather  on  Fire,"  1886; 
"  The  Ascent  of  Man,"  a  poem  on  evolution. 
1889;  "Songs  and  Sonnets,"  1893.  Translated 
the  journal  of  Marie  Bashkirtseff.  D.  1896. 

BLUNT,  Wilfrid  Scawen,  b.  Crabbet 
Park,  Crawley,  Sussex,  1840.  Educated  at 
Stonyhurst,  and  at  St.  Mary's  College,  Oscott. 
Member  of  the  diplomatic  service  from  1858 
to  1869.  In  the  latter  year  married  Lady 
Anne  Isabella  Noel,  granddaughter  of  Lord 
Byron.  Has  spent  much  time  in  the  East.  He 
favored  the  cause  of  Arabi  Pasha,  and  is  an 
ardent  advocate  of  justice  to  Ireland.  Author 
of  "The  Love  Sonnets  of  Proteus,"  1881 ;  "In 
Vinculis,"  and  "  The  New  Pilgrimage,"  both 
issued  in  1889. 

BONAK,  Horatius,  divine,  b.  Edinburgh, 
1808.  Educated  at  the  University  of  Edin- 
burgh. In  1837  was  ordained ;  became  the 
pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  church  at  Kelso, 
and  while  there  began  the  publication  of  the 
"  Kelso  Tracts."  Joined  the  Free  Church  move- 
ment in  1843,  and  since  I860  has  been  the  pastor 
of  the  Chalmers  Memorial  Free  Church  in  Edin- 
burgh. At  one  time  editor  of  "The  Journal 
of  Prophecy,"  and  "The  Christian  Treasury." 
Published  several  volumes  of  hymns. 

BOURDILLON,  Francis  William,  educa- 
tor, b.  Woolbedding,  1852.  Son  of  Rev.  Francis 
Bourdillon,  author  of  many  religious  works. 
Educated  at  Worcester  College,  Oxford.  For 
some  years  private  resident  tutor  to  the  sons  of 
Prince  and  Princess  Christian.  Some  of  his 
published  works  are  "  Among  the  Flowers  and 
other  Poems,"  1874;  "Ailes  d'Alouette,"  re- 
published  in  the  United  States,  1891 ;  "A  Lost 
God,"  1892  ;  and  "  Sursum  Corda,"  1893. 

BO  WRING,  Sir  John,  scholar  and  diplo- 
matist, b.  Exeter,  1792;  d.  1872.  An  editor  of 
the  "  Westminster  Review."  Took  an  active 
part  in  political  and  social  questions.  Elected 
to  Parliament  in  1835,  and  afterwards  filled 
diplomatic  positions  in  China  and  India.  Was 
knighted  in  1854.  He  was  widely  famous  as  a 
linguist,  and  published  translations  of  the  poetry 
of  many  lands. 

BRIDGES,  Robert  Seymour,  physician,  b. 
1844.  Educated  at  Eton,  and  Corpus  Christ! 
College,  Oxford.  After  travelling  in  foreign 
countries,  studied  medicine  in  London  and  prac- 
tised until  1882.  A«number  of  his  poems,  under 
the  title  of  "  The  Growth  of  Love,"  were  beau- 
tifully printed  at  the  private  press  of  a  friend. 
"Shorter  Poems,"  published  in  1890,  and  en- 
larged in  1894,  contains  the  greater  portion  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


683 


his  lyrical  work.  lie  has  written  several  clas- 
sical plays. 

BRONTE,  Emily  and  Anne.  Emily,  b. 
Yorkshire,  1818  ;  d.  1848.  Anne,  b.  Yorkshire, 
1820;  d.  1849.  Daughters  of  Kev.  Patrick 
Bronte.  Educated  at  home  and  at  a  school  for 
clergymen's  daughters.  Emily  adopted  the 
pseudonym  of  "Ellis  Bell,"  and  Anne  that  of 

Acton  Bell."  In  conjunction  with  their  sis- 
ter, Charlotte  Bronte,  they  published  a  book  of 
verse,  "  Poems,"  1840.  Emily  also  wrote  one 
novel,  "Wuthering  Heights,"  1840;  and  Anne 
produced  two,  "Agnes  Grey,"  184(j,  and  "The 
Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall,"  1848. 

BROOKE,  Stopford  Augustus,  clergyman, 
b.  Letterkenny,  Donegal,  1832.  Educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Curate  of  St.  Mat- 
thew, Marylebone,  and  afterwards  of  Kensing- 
ton ;  minister  of  St.  James'  Chapel,  18(56-75 ; 
appointed  Chaplain  in  Ordinary  to  the  Queen, 
1872  ;  and  in  1870  became  minister  of  Bedford 
Chapel.  In  1880  seceded  from  the  Church  of 
England.  He  has  published  several  theological 
works,  besides  "  Riquet  of  the  Tuft,"  1880; 
"Poems,"  1888;  "  1  ennyson :  His  Art  in  Re- 
lation to  Modern  Life,"  1894;  and  "Life  and 
Letters  of  the  late  Frederick  W.  Robertson," 
which  appeared  in  1805. 

BROUGH,  Robert  Barn  abas,  dramatist  and 
journalist,  b.  1828  ;  d.  1800.  His  early  literary 
work  consisted  of  amusing  dramas  produced  at 
the  Olympic  and  other  theatres,  and  of  journal- 
ism in  a  light  vein.  Later  endeavored  to  do 
more  serious  work.  Published  "Songs  of  the 
Governing  Classes,"  1855 ;  and  a  collection  of 
"  tales  in  prose  and  verse." 

BROWN.  Ford  Madox,  artist,  b.  Calais, 
1821 ;  d.  1893.  A  veteran  leader  in  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  school,  and  wrote  and  lectured  on 
art.  Was  engaged  for  eleven  years  on  a  fresco 
series  in  the  Manchester  Town  Hall. 

BROWN,  Oliver  Madox,  son  of  Ford 
Madox  Brown,  b.  Finchley,  1855 ;  d.  1874.  He 
possessed  unwonted  literary  and  artistic  gifts. 
Exhibited  pictures  at  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
showed  marked  precocity  as  a  writer  of  verse 
and  prose.  "  The  Black  Swan,"  his  prose  ro- 
mance, was  revised  and  published  as  Gabriel 
Denver,"  but  the  original  and  better  text  ap- 
pears in  his  collected  works,  edited  in  two  vol- 
umes after  his  premature  death,  by  Mr.  W.  M. 
Rossetti  and  Dr.  Hueffer.  . 

BROWNING,  Elizabeth  Barrett  (Moul- 
ton-Barrett),  the  most  inspired  of  woman- 
poets,  b.  Coxoe  Hall,  Durham.  0  March,  180(5 ; 
d.  Florence,  Italy,  29  June,  1801.  The  record 
of  her  birth  is  now  substantiated,  it  having 
been  given,  until  recently,  as  "  at  Hope  End, 
Ledbury,  1809."  She  was,  therefore,  six  years 
older  than  her  husband,  and  in  her  forty-third 
year  when  Robert  Barrett  Browning,  their  only 
child,  was  born.  Her  youth  was  passed  in  Led- 
bury, at  the  home  of  her  father,  a  rich  Ja- 
maican, Mr.  Moulton,  who  had  added  the  name 


of  Barrett  to  his  own.  In  childhood,  her  pre- 
cocity and  love  o_f  study  were  marvellous.  She 
wrote  verse,  delighted  in  the  classics,  and,  as 
she  grew  older,  learned  Hebrew  and  Italian. 
She  read  Greek  poetry  and  philosophy  in  the 
original  texts,  and  even  the  Greek  Christian 
Fathers,  —  often  in  company  with  Hugh  Stuart 
Boyd,  as  exquisitely  related  in  "  Wine  of  Cy- 
prus." Published  anonymously  her  first  book 
of  verse,  "An  Essay  on  Mind,"  1827.  Her 
translation  of  the  "  Prometheus  Bound  "  ap- 
peared, with  poems  of  her  own,  1833.  In  1837 
she  ruptured  a  blood-vessel,  and  thenceforth 
was  always  fragile,  —  confined  for  years  at  a 
time  to  her  room,  where  she  pursued  her  work 
and  studies,  and,  until  after  her  marriage,  saw 
only  her  near  and  devoted  friends.  Meantime 
her  reputation  increased  with  "  The  Seraphim," 
1838 ;  "  The  Romaunt  of  the  Page,"  1839  ;  and 
"A  Drama  of  Exile,"  1844;  and  in  the  last- 
named  year  she  brought  out  the  first  collective 
edition  of  her  poems.  John  Kenyon  made  her 
acquainted,  1845,  with  Robert  Browning,  who 
was  gratified  by  an  allusion  to  himself  in  "  Lady 
Geraldine's  Courtship."  The  poets  fell  in  love, 
but  Mr.  Barrett  absolutely  forbade  his  daughter 
to  contract  marriage.  Disregarding  his  man- 
date, she  wedded  Browning,  12  Sept.,  1846,  and 
went  with  him  to  Italy,  never  again  seeing  her 
father,  and  being  relentlessly  unforgiven  by 
him  to  the  end.  After  her  marriage  her  poetry 
increased  in  beauty  and  power ;  she  wrote  her 
most  sustained  works  and  noblest  lyrics,  and 
her  fame,  despite  her  technical  shortcomings, 
became  world-wide.  America  loved  her,  and 
was  loved  by  her  in  turn.  A  poet  of  humanity, 
freedom,  and  enthusiasm,  she  sang  sponta- 
neously, and  from  a  glowing  heart.  Her  mas- 
terpiece of  art  and  feeling  is  the  "Sonnets  from 
the  Portuguese,"  1850,  —  inspired  by  her  love 
and  marriage,  and  unequalled  by  any  English 
sonnet-series  except  Shakespeare's  own.  "  Casa 
Guidi  Windows,"  1851,  is  her  chief  tribute  to 
the  Italian  cause  ;  "  Aurora  Leigh,"  her  long- 
est work,  a  highly  subjective  romantic  tale, 
embodying  her  humane  and  liberal  views,  ap- 
peared in  1850;  and  "Poems  before  Congress" 
in  1800.  Her  "Last  Poems"  were  edited  by 
her  husband  the  year  after  her  death.  Her  only 
prose  relics  are  her  letters,  and  the  Essays  on 
the  Greek  -  Christian  and  English  Poets,  con- 
tributed to  the  "  Athenaeum,"  1842.  Her  re- 
mains lie  in  the  English  burying-ground  at 
Florence. — Cp.  R.  H.  Horne,  J.  Kenyon,  and 
"  Victorian  Poets,"  chap.  iv.  [E.  c.  s.]. 

BROWNING,  Robert,  the  poet  of  dramatic 
psychology,  and  in  years,  genius,  and  fame  the 
Laureate's  only  peer,  b.  Camberwell,  near  Lon- 
don, 7  May,  1812;  d.  Venice,  Dec.  12,  1889. 
On  his  father's  side  he  was  of  somewhat  hum- 
ble English  stock,  and  inherited  West  Indian 
Creole  blood  from  his  paternal  grandmother. 
On  his  mother's  side  he  was  Scottish  and  Ger- 
man. His  father's  means  were  limited,  but 
young  Browning  attended  lectures  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  London,  and  was  afterward  enabled 
to  travel  on  the  Continent.  From  the  first  he 


684 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


showed  originality,  and  was  little  affected  by 
current  modes  of  art  and  thought.  His  earliest 
book  was  the  fragmentary  "Pauline,"  1833, 
afterward  suppressed,  but  latterly  included  in 
the  "  complete  editions."  This  was  followed 
by  "Paracelsus,"  1835,  which  secured  for  the 
poet  a  small  set  of  firm  adherents.  "  Straf- 
ford,"  his  first  acting  drama,  was  played  by 
Macready  at  Covent  Garden,  1837.  The  enig- 
matical Sordello,"  1840,  made  it  plain  that 
he  was  no  candidate  for  immediate  popularity, 
but  took  his  appeal  to  the  intellectual  few. 
From  1841  to  1846,  however,  many  of  his  most 
beautiful  and  dramatic  lyrics  and  idyls  came 
out  in  the  eight  parts  of  "  Bells  and  Pome- 
granates ; "  which  embraced,  also,  the  great 
series  of  earlier  dramas  :  "  Pippa  Passes,"  1840  ; 
"  King  Victor  and  King  Charles,"  1842  ;  "  The 
Return  of  the  Druses,"  1843;  "  A  Blot  in  the 
'Scutcheon,"  1843;  "Colombo's  Birthday," 
1844 ;  "  Luria,"  184(i ;  and  "  A  Soul's  Tragedy," 
1846.  These  intensely  wrought  and  penetrating 
studies  of  human  life,  thought,  and  circum- 
stance, fervid  with  color,  and  saturated '  with 
learning,  came  from  the  brain  of  one  who  could 
be  as  melodious  or  as  rugged  as  he  chose,  and 
at  will  impassioned  or  analytic.  They  impressed 
careful  readers  with  his  greatness ;  but  he  failed 
to  reach  the  common  people,  or  gain  the  fame 
then  won  by  Tennyson,  until  the  afternoon  of 
his  vigorous  life.  Meantime  he  wrote  cease- 
lessly ;  his  marriage  with  Miss  Barrett,  of  it- 
self, with  their  life  in  Rome,  invested  him  with 
interest,  and  finally  such  works  as  "  Men  and 
Women,"  1855,  "  Dramatis  Personse,"  1864, 
"The  Ring  and  the  Book,"  1868-69,  were  as 
eagerly  welcomed  by  the  English-reading  world 
as  by  those  who  so  long  had  recognized  his 
gifts.  After  his  marriage  (related  in  the  pre- 
ceding notice),  the  thoroughly  ideal  life  of  "  the 
wedded  poets  "  was  something  that  has  become 
historic,  no  other  union  of  two  poets  so  indi- 
vidually great  having  ever  occurred.  When 
Mrs.  Browning  died,  Browning  left  Florence, 
and  resided  chiefly  in  London  for  many  years. 
Among  his  volumes  hitherto  unmentioned  are 
"  Balaustion's  Adventure,"  1871;  "Fifine  at 
the  Fair,"  1872  ;  "  Red  Cotton  Night-Cap  Coun- 
try," 1873;  "Aristophanes'  Apology,"  1875; 
"  The  Inn  Album,"  1875  ;  "  La  Saisiaz,"  1878 ; 
"Dramatic  Idyls,"  1879,  1880;  "Jocoseria," 
1883  ;  "  Ferishtah's  Fancies,"  1884  ;  "  Parley- 
ings,"  etc.,  1887:  and  the  small  collection  of 
his  last  lyrics,  "  Asolando,"  1889.  Browning, 
after  all  this  prodigal  work,  and  a  hale  and  ' 
optimistic  old  age,  died  serenely,  and  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  For  years  before  his 
death  his  name  had  been  as_  splendid  as  it  was 
formerly  obscure.  The  original  Browning  Club 
was  founded  in  1881,  for  the  study  and  exposi- 
tion of  his  works.  His  extreme  votaries  rank 
him  with  Shakespeare,  praise  him  for  his  more 
involved  and  prosaic  labors,  and  look  askance 
at  other  modern  poets,  —  Tennyson  not  ex- 
cepted.  But  these  are  they  who  care  less  for 
absolute  poetry  than  for  metaphysics.  Of  late 
a  finer  discrimination  is  exercised,  and  the  poet's 


highest  qualities  are  more  clearly  compre- 
hended, even  by  the  Browning  societies.  His 
truest  lover  is  one  who  takes  him  at  his  best, 
as  an  affluent  artist,  and  the  most  profound 
modern  revealer  of  the  human  soul,  without 
over-valuing  his  excess  of  analysis  and  didacti- 
cism. Cp.  "Victorian  Poets,"  chaps,  ix,  xii. 

[E.  c.  s.J 

BUCHANAN,  Robert,  dramatist  and  nov- 
elist, b.  Glasgow,  1841.  Educated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Glasgow,  where  he  met  the  poet  David 
Gray,  with  whom  he  afterwards  occupied  lodg- 
ings in  London.  He  is  a  versatile  and  polemic 
man  of  letters,  has  won  distinction  in  various 
departments  of  literature,  and  is  an  active 
writer  of  plays  for  the  stage.  Has  been  a 
regular  contributor  to  the  "  Contemporary 
Review"  for  a  number  of  years.  Author  of 
"  Undertones,"  1860;  "Idyls  and  Legends  of 
Inverburn,"  1865;  "London  Poems,"  1866; 
"  The  Book  of  Orm,"  1870  ;  "  Ballads  of  Life, 
Love,  and  Humor,"  1882.  He  has  also  written 
several  novels.  Among  his  successful  plays  are 
"A  Nine  Days'  Queen,"  "Lady  Clare," 
"Storm-Beaten,"  and  "Sophia."  A  beautiful 
edition  of  his  collected  poems,  in  three  volumes, 
came  out  in  1874.  Cp.  "  Victorian  Poets,"  ch.  x. 

BTJLWER,  Sir  Edward  Lytton.  See  Ed- 
ward, Lord  Lytton. 

BURBIDQE,  Thomas,  b.  1816.  Author  of 
"Poems,  Longer  and  Shorter,"  1838;  "Hours 
and  Days,"  1851.  Published,  in  connection  with 
A.  H.  Clough,  "  Ambarvalia,  and  other  Poems," 
1849. 

BYRON,  Mary  C.  Q.  (Mary  C.  Qilling- 
ton),  b.  Cheshire,  1861.  Became  associate  of 
the  Royal  Academy  of  Music,  1887.  Married 
George  F.  Byron  in  1892.  Joint  author,  with 
her  sister,  of  "Poems,"  1892,  and  is  a  contrib- 
utor of  both  verse  and  prose  to  English  and 
American  journals. 

CALL,  Wathen  Marks  Wilks,  reformer, 
b.  1817  ;  d.  1890.  Was  graduated  at  Cambridge ; 
took  Holy  Orders,  but  withdrew  from  the  church 
in  1856.  Contributed  to  the  "  Leader."  and  the 
"Westminster,"  "Theological,"  and  "Fort- 
nightly "  Reviews.  Interested  in  social  and 
political  reform.  Published,  in  verse,  "Rever- 
berations," 1842,  and  "Golden  Histories,"  in 
addition  to  an  early  volume  which  contained 
some  fine  translations. 

CALVERLEY,  Charles  Stuart,  educator 
and  lecturer,  b.  Martley,  Worcestershire,  1831 ; 
d.  1884.  Educated  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford, 
and  Christ's  College,  Cambridge.  Translated 
successfully  from  the  Latin,  and  wrote  clever 
parodies  and  humorous  verse.  Published 
"  Verses  and  Translations,"  1862  ;  a  "  Verse 
Translation  of  Theocritus,"  1869  ;  "  Flj 
Leaves,"  1872.  Resided  in  Cambridge,  teach- 
ing and  lecturing  at  college.  Studied  law,  and 
became  a  member  of  the  Inner  Temple,  1865. 

CAMERON,  George  Frederick,  journalist, 
b.  New  Glasgow,  Nova  Scotia,  1854;  d.  1887. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


685 


Educated  at  Queen's  University,  Kingston. 
Resided  in  the  United  States  for  several  years, 
and  wrote  for  the  American  and  Canadian  pe- 
riodicals. Author  of  "Lyrics  on  Freedom, 
Love,  and  Death."  A  writer  of  promise,  whose 
loss  was  deeply  regretted. 

CAMPBELL,  "William  "Wilfred,  govern- 
ment service,  b.  Western  Ontario,  1861.  Edu- 
cated at  University  College,  Toronto,  and  Cam- 
bridge, Mass.  His  verse  appears  in  American 
magazines.  Has  held  an  appointment  in  the 
Department  of  the  Secretary  of  State  at  Ot- 
tawa since  1893.  Author  of  "Lake  Lyrics," 
1889  ;  "  The  Dread  Voyage,"  1893 ;  "  Mordred, 
a  Tragedy,"  and  "  Hildebrand,"  dramas  in 
blank  verse,  1893. 

CANTON",  "William,  journalist,  b.  Island  of 
Chusan,  off  the  coast  of  China,  1845.  Passed 
his  childhood  in  Jamaica  and  was  educated  in 
France.  Removed  to  Scotland  and  joined  the 
staff  of  the  Glasgow  "  Herald."  "  A  Lost  Epic 
and  other  Poems  "  was  published  in  1887. 

CARLYLE,  Jane  "Welsh,  b.  Haddington, 
1801 ;  d.  London,  1866.  Married  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  1826.  A  collection  of  her  letters  was  made 
and  edited  by  J.  A.  Froude,  1883.  Her  verse, 
of  which  at  one  time  she  wrote  a  great  deal, 
was  spirited  and  original. 

CARLYLE,  Thomas,  essayist  and  historian, 
b.  Ecclef  echan,  Scotland,  1795 ;  d.  Chelsea,  Lon- 
don, 1881.  Educated  at  Edinburgh  University. 
Studied  for  the  ministry,  but  gave  that  up  for 
law,  which  he  also  shortly  abandoned.  He 
taught  school  and  was  tutor  in  a  private  family. 
Owing  to  his  individual  style,  he  did  not  take 
his  proper  place  in  literature  until  the  publica- 
tion of  the  "  French  Revolution,"  1837.  Most 
of  his  verse  was  contributed  to  magazines 
between  1823  and  1833.  Was  made  Lord  Rec- 
tor of  Edinburgh  University  in  1866.  Among 
his  works  are  "  Sartor  Resartus,"  1833-34  ; 
"Chartism,"  1839;  "  Heroes  and  Hero-Wor- 
ship,"  1841  ;  "  Oliver  Cromwell's  Letters  and 
Speeches,"  1845 ;  "  History  of  Frederick  the 
Great,"  1858-65. 

CARMAN,  Bliss,  man  of  letters,  b.  Fredec- 
icton,  N.  B.,  1861.  Was  graduated  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  New  Brunswick,  1881,  receiving  the 
degree  of  M.  A.,  1884.  During  the  past  few 
years  has  resided  chiefly  in  the  United  States, 
where  he  has  been  actively  engaged  as  an  editor 
and  writer.  Member  of  the  editorial  staff  of 
several  periodicals,  including  the  New  York 
"Independent "  and  the  Chicago  "Chap-Book." 
A  frequent  contributor  of  poetry  and  critical^ 
articles  to  the  mazagines.  His  published  books 
are,  "  Low  Tide  on  Grand  PreV'  1893 ;  and 
"  Songs  from  Vagabondia,"  with  Richard 
Hovey  as  joint  author,  1894. 

"CARROLL,  Lewis."  — See  Charles  Lut- 
widge  Dodgson, 

CASTILLA,  Ethel,  resident  of  Victoria, 
Australia.  "An  Australian  Girl"  was  con- 
tributed to  a  Melbourne  newspaper. 


CLARKE,  Herbert  Edwin,  b.  Chatteris, 
Isle  of  Ely,  1852.  Educated  in  schools  con- 
ducted by  the  Society  of  Friends,  of  which 
denomination  his  parents  were  members.  Pub- 
lished "Songs  in  Exile,"  1879;  "Storm-Drift," 
1882. 

CLEPHANE,  Elizabeth  Cecilia,  b.  Edin- 
burgh, 1830  ;  d.  Melrose,  1869.  Her  poem, 
"  The  Ninety  and  Nine,"  made  famous  by  the 
singing  evangelist,  Ira  D.  Sankey,  first  appeared 
in  the  "  Family  Treasury,"  and  afterwards  in 
the  "  Christian  Age." 

CLOTJGH,  Arthur  Hugh,  educator,  b. 
Liverpool,  1819 ;  d.  Florence,  Italy,  1861.  Spent 
most  of  his  childhood  in  the  United  States,  but 
later  was  sent  to  Rugby,  and  was  a  favorite 
pupil  of  Dr.  Arnold.  He  took  the  Balliol 
Scholarship  in  1836  and  went  to  Oxford.  Sub- 
sequently he  was  appointed  Fellow  and  tutor  at 
Oriel.  Visited  Rome  and  Paris,  and  wrote  a 
notable  series  of  letters  from  both  places.  In 
1852  he  came  to  the  United  States  and  estab- 
lished himself  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  where  he 
lectured,  taught,  and  contributed  to  various 
periodicals.  During  his  American  sojourn  he 
won  the  friendship  and  alliance  of  the  selectest 
leaders  of  the  Harvard  literary  group.  At  Ox- 
ford he  is  remembered  with  Matthew  Arnold 
and  the  struggle  for  freedom  of  opinion.  His 
life  and  death  inspired  Arnold's  "The  Scholar 
Gypsy,"  and  elegy  of  "Thyrsis."  In  1853  he 
returned  to  England,  accepting  office  in  the 
Education  Department  of  the  Privy  Council, 
which  he  held  until  his  death.  "  The  Bothie 
of  Tober-na-Vuolich "  was  published  in  1848, 
and  a  volume  of  poems,  "  Ambarvalia,"  which 
he  wrote  with  Thomas  Bnrbidge,  appeared  in 
1849.  Completed  his  revision  of  Dryden's; 
"  Plutarch,"  1859.  After  his  death,  his  collected 
poems  were  brought  out,  1862,  with  a  memoir 
by  his  friend,  Prof.  C.  E.  Norton. 

COLERIDGE,  Hartley,  son  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge,  b.  Clevedon,  1796 ;  d.  1849. 
Attended  Merton  College,  Oxford,  and  obtained 
a  Fellowship  at  Oriel  College.  Attempted  a 
literary  career  in  London,  and  afterward  started 
a  boys  school  at  Ambleside,  but  was  unsuccess- 
ful in  both.  Met  Wordsworth  when  a  boy  and 
formed  a  friendship  with  him  that  lasted  until 
his  death.  Contributed  to  "  Blackwood's." 
Published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1833.  His 
works  were  edited  and  republished  by  his 
brother  in  1851. 

COLERIDGE,  Sara,  daughter  of  Samuel 
Taylor  Coleridge,  b.  Keswick,  1802  ;  d.  1852. 
For  a  number  of  years  made  her  home  with  her 
uncle,  Robert  Southey.  In  1829,  married  her 
cousin,  Henry  Nelson  Coleridge.  Did  some 
valuable  editorial  work,  and  translating. 
"  Phantasmion,"  a  fairy  tale,  appeared  in  1837. 

COLLINS,  Mortimer,  novelist  and  journal- 
ist, b.  Plymouth,  1827;  d.  Richmond,  1876. 
Published  hia  first  book  of  verse,  "  Idyls  and 
Rhymes,"  in  1855,  while  master  of  mathematics 
at  Queen  Elizabeth's  College,  Guernsey.  In 


686 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


1856  gave  up  this  position  and  devoted  himself 
entirely  to  writing.  "  Summer  Songs  "  ap- 
peared in  1860.  Was  the  author  of  a  number 
of  novels,  of  which  "Sweet  Anne  Page,"  1868, 
is  one  of  the  best  known.  Contributed  to  news- 
papers and  magazines. 

COOK,  Eliza,  b.  Sputhwark,  1812  ;  d.  1889. 
In  her  youth  her  writings  were  published  in 
periodicals  and  attracted  a  great  deal  of  notice. 
Established  "  Eliza  Cook's  Journal,"  a  weekly 
periodical,  1849,  but  owing  to  failing  health 
discontinued  it  in  1854.  "  Lays  of  a  Wild 
Harp"  appeared  in  1835,  and  her  collected 
"Poems,"  1840;  "New  Echoes,"  1864;  and 
"  Diamond  Dust,"  1865.  Her  poems  attained 
wide  popularity  and  have  passed  through  vari- 
ous editions. 

COOPER,  Thomas,  "The  Chartist,"  b. 
Leicester,  1805;  d.  1892.  Self-educated,  and 
pursued  his  studies  under  great  disadvantages. 
Took  an  active  part  in  political  reform  and  de- 
voted his  time  to  lecturing  in  England  and 
Scotland.  Collected  his  poetical  works  in  1878. 

CORY,  William,  educator,  b.  1823  ;  d.  1892. 
Known  as  William  Johnson  during  the  greater 
part  of  his  life,  and  while  bearing  this  name 
published  "  lonica,"  a  book  of  chaste  and  ex- 
quisite verse,  1858,  and  several  text-books  on  the 
classics.  Was  educated  at  Eton,  and  held  a 
Fellowship  at  King's  College,  Cambridge. 
Assistant  master  at  Eton,  1847-71.  Soon  after 
leaving  Eton,  adopted  the  name  of  Cory,  and 
brought  out  a  "  Guide  to  Modern  English  His- 
tory. A  aew  edition  of  "lonica"  appeared 
in  1891. 

COTTERELL,  George,  journalist,  b.  Wal- 
sall,  in  the  English  Midlands,  1839.  Studied 
law  and  practised  for  some  years,  but  after- 
wards entered  literature  as  a  profession.  For 
•  eight  years  he  has  been  the  editor  of  the  "  York- 
shire Daily  Herald."  Published  "  Poems :  Old 
and  New,"  1894;  also  two  privately  printed 
volumes  of  verse,  1870,  1887.  The  "  Banquet," 
a  satire,  appeared  in  1884. 

COURTHOPE,  "William  John,  b.  Sussex, 
1842.  Educated  at  Harrow  and  New  College, 
Oxford.  Contributed  to  the  "Quarterly  Re- 
view," and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
"National  Review."  Appointed  Civil  Service 
'Commissioner,  1887.  At  present  Fellow  of  New 
College,  Cambridge,  and  the  most  prominent 
candidate  for  the  Chair  of  Poetry  at  Oxford, 
soon  to  be  vacated  by  Prof.  Palgrave.  Author 
•of  "  Ludibria  Lunse,"  1869 ;  "  The  Paradise  of 
Birds,"  1870;  "Addison"  in  the  "English 
.Men  of  Letters,"  1884.  The  first  volume  of  his  f 
master-work,  "  A  History  of  English  Poetry," 
has  now  (1895)  appeared. 

CRAIGMYLE,  Elizabeth.  Published 
"Poems  and  Translations,"  1886  ;  "  A  Handful 
of  Pansies,"  1888. 

CRAIK,  Dinah  Maria  (Mulock),  novelist, 
b.  Stoke-upon-Trent,  1826;  d.  1887.  Married 
George  Liljie  Craik,  Jr.,  1865.  Received  a  pen- 
sion of  £60.  in  consideration  of  her  literary  labors. 


Published  her  first  novel,  "The  Ogilvies,"  in 
her  twenty-third  year.  "  John  Halifax,  Gentle- 
man," her  best  known  work,  appeared  in 
1856-57 ;  "  A  Life  for  a  Life,"  1860.  Collected 
her  poems  in  a  volume  entitled  "  Thirty  Years, 
being  Poems  New  and  Old,"  1881. 

CRANE,  Walter,  painter,  b.  Liverpool,  1845. 
Also  a  decorative  designer  and  illustrator  of 
books.  President  of  the  Arts  and  Crafts  Exhi- 
bition Society,  founded  1888.  "The  Sirent 
Three,"  a  poem  written  and  illustrated  by  him- 
self, appeared  in  1886.  He  is  also  the  author  of 
illustrated  books  for  children. 

CRAWFORD,  Isabella  Valancey,  b.  about 
1857;  d.  Toronto,  1887.  Published  "Old 
Spooks's  Pass ;  Malcolm's  Katie,  and  other 
Poems,"  in  1884. 

CRAWFORD,  Louise  (Macartney)  One 
of  the  active  contributors  to  Chapman  and 
Hall's  "Metropolitan  Magazine."  Beginning 
about  1835,  she  published  therein  a  series  of 
"Autobiographical  Sketches,"  and  also  col- 
laborated with  Prof.  F.  Nicholls  Crouch,  the 
well-known  composer,  in  the  issue  of  several 
books  of  songs,  she  writing  the  words  for  his 
music.  "Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  as  given  in 
this  Anthology,  appeared  in  "Echoes  from  the 
Lakes,"  the  nrst  of  the  series.  It  was  subse- 
quently elongated  for  dramatic  representation, 
by  three  supplementary  songs,  in  the  same  mea- 
sure, of  which  "  Dermot  Astore "  begins  as 
follows :  — 

"  Oh,  Dermot  Astore  !  between  waking  and  sleeping 
I  heard  thy  dear  voice,  and  wept  to  its  lay  ; 

Every  pulse  of  my  heart  the  sweet  measure  was  keep- 
ing, 
Till  Killarney's  wild  echoes  had  borne  it  away." 

CROSS,  Mary  Ann  Evans  (Lewes), 
"  George  Eliot,"  novelist,  b.  Kirk  Hallam,  Der- 
byshire, 1819 ;  d.  London,  1880.  Educated  at 
the  village  school  and  at  a  boarding  school  at 
Nuneaton.  Became  associate  editor  of  the 
"  Westminster  Review,"  and  meeting  George 
Henry  Lewes,  she  formed  an  alliance  with  him, 
although  for  legal  reasons  they  could  not  marry. 
Mr.  Lewes  died  in  1878,  and  she  was  married  to 
J.  W.  Cross,  1880.  Her  first  book  of  fiction 
was  "Scenes  from  Clerical  Life,"  written  in 
1856,  and  published  under  the  pseudonym  of 
"George  Eliot."  Author  also  of  "Adam 
Bede,"  1859;  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  1860; 
"Silas  Marner,"  1861 ;  "  Romola,"  1863  ;"  Fe- 
lix Holt,"  1866;  "  Middlemarch,"  1871-72; 
"  Daniel  Deronda,"  1876.  Of  her  poetry, 
"The  Spanish  Gypsy"  was  published,  1868: 
"Agatha,"  1869;  "The  Legend  of  Jubal  and 
other  Poems,"  1864.  "How  Lisa  loved  the 
King  "  appeared  after  her  death. 

CURRIE,  Mary  Montjjomerie  (Lamb), 
Lady,  b.  184-,  known  as  "  Violet  Fane,"  eld- 
est daughter  of  Savile  Montgomery  Lamb,  of 
Beaufort,  Sussex,  and  great-granddaughter  of 
Archibald,  Earl  of  Eglinton.  Was  married  to 
Henry  Sydenham  Singleton,  1864 ;  after  his 
death  in  1893,  she  became  the  wife  of  Sii  Philip 
Currie,  British  ambassador  to  Turkey,  and  re- 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


687 


sides  at  present  in  Constantinople.  Her  first 
book  of  verse  appeared  in  1872.  Since  then 
she  has  published  five  volumes  of  poetry  and  a 
number  of  prose  works.  An  eclectic  edition 
of  her  Poems,  in  two  volumes,  appeared  in  1892. 

CUSTANCE,  Olive,  b.  Weston  Park,  Nor- 
wich, 1874.  Daughter  of  Colonel  Custance. 
Her  work  appears  in  the  leading  English  peri- 
odicals. 

BARLEY,  George,  critic  and  mathema- 
tician, b.  Dublin,  1795 ;  d.  1846.  Took  his 
B.  A.  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  1820.  Going 
to  London,  he  wrote  critical  and  other  papers 
for  the  magazines,  and  finally,  after  a  period  of 
travel,  went  on  the  staff  of  the  "  Athenfeum." 
At  intervals,  from  the  first,  he  produced  highly 
lyrical  dramas,  children  of  the  Elizabethan  fan- 
tasy, born  out  of  time.  Of  these  the  most 
noted  and  poetic  is  "  Sylvia,  or  the  May  Queen," 
1827.  Darley  is  well  called  by  Mr.  Ingram  "  a 
laureate  of  fairyland."  To  his  songs  and  melo- 
dies given  in  this  Anthology  the  following  lyric 
may  be  added  as  a  foil  :  — 

THE   FALLEN  STAR 

A  star  is  gone !  a  star  is  gone  ! 

There  is  a  blank  in  Heaven, 
One  of  the  cherub  choir  has  done 

His  airy  course  this  even. 

He  sat  upon  the  orb  of  fire 

That  hung  for  ages  there, 
And  lent  his  music  to  the  choir 

That  haunts  the  nightly  air. 

But  when  his  thousand  years  are  passed, 

With  a  cherubic  sigh 
He  vanished  with  his  car  at  last, 

For  even  cherubs  die  ! 

Hear  how  his  angel-brothers  mourn  — 
The  minstrels  of  the  spheres  — 

Each  chiming  sadly  in  his  turn 
And  dropping  splendid  tears. 

The  planetary  sisters  all 

Join  in  the  fatal  song, 
And  weep  this  hapless  brother's  fall 

Who  sang  with  them  so  long. 

But  deepest  of  the  choral  band 

The  Lunar  Spirit  sings, 
And  with  a  bass  according  hand 

Sweeps  all  her  sullen  strings. 

From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  dome 

Where  sleepless  Uriel  lies, 
His  rude  harmonic  thunders  come 

Mingled  with  mighty  sighs. 

The  thousand  car-borne  cherubim, 

The  wandering  eleven, 
All  join  to  chant  the  dirge  of  him 

Who  fell  just  now  from  Heaven. 

DARMESTETER,  Agnes  Mary  Frances 
(Robinson),  b.  Leamington,  1857.  Studied  at 
the  University  College,  paying  special  attention 
to  Greek  literature.  Was  married  to  M.  James 
Darmesteter,  the  eminent  Orientalist,  in  1888. 
and  has  since  resided  in  Paris.  Author  of 
several  volumes  of  verse,  among  which  are  ''  A 


Handful  of  Honeysuckle,"  1878;  "An  Italian 
Garden,"  1886  ;  "  Lyrics,"  1891 ;  and  "  Retro- 
spect," 1893.  Has  written,  also,  a  novel  and  sev- 
eral prose  essays,  and  translated  the  "  Crowned 
Hippolytus  "  of  Euripides. 

DAVIDSON,  John,  b.  Barrhead,  Renfrew- 
shire, 1857.  Educated  at  the  Highlanders 
Academy,  Greenock,  and  Edinburgh  University. 
His  "  In  a  Music  Hall  and  other  Poems,"  ap- 
peared in  1891 ;  "  Fleet  Street  Eclogues,"  Io93  ? 
"  Ballads  and  Poems,"  1895.  In  addition  tc 
these  he  has  written  several  dramas  in  verse. 

DAVIS,  Thomas  Osborn,  b.  Mallow,  County 
Cork,  1814  ;  d.  Dublin,  1845.  Was  graduated 
from  Trinity  College,  1836.  Intensely  patriotic, 
he  was  one  of  the  most  effective  contributors  to 
the  "Nation,"  —  the  revolutionary  Irish  jour- 
nal established  by  Chas.  Gavan  Duffy  in  1842. 
His  poems  and  essays  were  collected  after  his 
death  and  published  in  Duffy's  "  Library  of 
Ireland." 

DaWSON,  "William  James,  clergyman,  b. 
Towcester,  Northamptonshire,  1854.  Entered 
the  Wesleyan  ministry,  1875.  In  1892  resigned 
from  the  Wesleyan  ministry  and  entered  the 
Congregational.  Has  been  a  successful  histori- 
cal lecturer.  His  "  Arvalon,  a  first  Poem," 
appeared  i*1878  ;  "  A  Vision  of  Souls,"  1884  ; 
and  "  Poems  and  Lyrics,"  1893. 

DE  TABLEY,  Lord  (John  Byrne  Leices- 
ter Warren),  b.  1835.  Took  his  degree  at 
Christ  Church  College,  Oxford,  1856.  Called  to 
the  Bar,  I860.  His  early  work  appeared  under 
the  assumed  name  of  "  William  P.  Lancaster." 
Author  of  "Eclogues  and  Monodramas,"  1864  ; 
"Orestes,"  a  drama  in  verse,  1867;  "Rehear- 
sals," 1870  •  "  Searching  the  Net,"  1873  ;  "  The 
Soldier  of  Fortune,"  1876.  After  years  of  re- 
tirement as  a  poet,  Lord  De  Tabley  brought 
out  his  later  "  Poems,"  1893,  and  a  second  series, 
1894.  Both  these  collections  are  distinguished 
for  rare  lyrical  qualities,  and  have  been  warmly 
received  by  select  lovers  of  poetry.  D.  1895. 

DE  VERE,  Aubrey  Thomas,  b.  Curragh 
Chase,  Limerick,  1814.  Third  son  of  Sir  Au- 
brey de  Vere  Hunt.  Educated  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin.  He  is  the  author  of  "TheWal- 
denses  ;  or  the  Fall  of  Rora,"  1842 ;  "  The  Search 
after  Proserpine,  Recollections  of  Greece  and 
other  Poems,"  1843 ;  and  of  a  number  of  vol- 
umes of  verse  and  two  volumes  of  essays.  A 
selection  of  his  poems,  edited  by  Prof.  G.  E0 
Woodbury,  appeared  in  New  York,  1894. 

DICKENS,  Charles.  —See  page  710. 

DISRAELI,  Benjamin.  —  See  Earl  of 
Beaconsfield. 

DIXON,  Richard  Watson,  clergyman,  b. 
London,  1833.  Educated  at  King  Edward's 
School,  Birmingham,  and  Pembroke  College, 
Oxford.  With  Edward  Burne-Jones,  William 
Morris,  and  others,  started  the  "Oxford  and 
Cambridge  Magazine  "as  an  advocate  of  Pre- 
Raphaelite  ideas.  Curate  at  Lambeth,  1868, 
and  later  vicar  of  Warksworth  and  honorary 
canon  of  Carlisle.  Author  of  "  Christ's  Com- 


688 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


pany  and  other  Poems,"  1861 ;  "Mano,"  1883  : 

Odes  and  Eclogues,"  1884 ;  "  Lyrical  Poems, 
1886 ;    and   "  The  Story  of  Eudocia  and   her 
Brothers,"  1888. 

DOB  ELL,  Sydney  Thompson,  b.  Cran- 
brook,  Kent,  1824  ;  d.  1874.  Succeeded  his  father 
in  the  wine  trade,  hut  found  time  to  produce 
several  volumes  of  poetry,  and  a  political  pam- 
phlet on  reform  in  parliamentary  elections.  His 
first  work,  "The  Roman,"  a  dramatic  poem, 
appeared  1850;  followed  by  "Balder,"  1854; 
"  Sonnets  of  the  War."  in  which  he  collaborated 
with  Alexander  Smith,  1855 ;  "  England  in 
Time  of  War,"  1856.  In  early  days  he  used  the 
pen-name  of  "  Sydney  Yendys." 

DOBSON,  Henry  Austin,  Civil  Service,  b. 
Plymouth,  1840.  Educated  in  Wales  and  on  the 
Continent.  In  1856  received  a  clerkship  in  the 
Board  of  Trade,  and  has  since  remained  in 
official  life.  In  the  early  seventies  he  attracted 
attention  by  novel  and  charming  lyrics  in  light 
but  thoroughly  poetic  vein  ;  and  upon  the  issue 
of  his  first  collection,  "  Vignettes  in  Rhyme, 
and  Vers  de  Socie'te',"  1873,  it  was  evident  that 
a  new  and  artistic  master  of  "Society  Verse  " 
had  arisen.  From  that  time,  advancing  in  both 
art  and  feeling,  he  has  stood  at  th^head  of  his 
own  school.  Is  the  foremost  writer  uoon  the 
mode  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  and  quite  imbued 
with  its  atmosphere.  Since  1873  has  issued,  in 
verse,  "  Proverbs  in  Porcelain,"  1877;  "Old 
World  Idyls,"  1883  ;  "  At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre," 
1885 ;  "  Ballade  of  Beau  Brocade,"  1892.  All 
of  these  have  been  brought  out  in  select  and 
elegant  editions,  both  in  England  and  America. 
As  a  prose  writer  he  has  given  us  Lives  of  Ho- 
garth, Fielding,  Steele,  and  Goldsmith,  and 
various  critical  works.  Cp.  "Victorian  Poets," 
pp.  273,  473. 

DODGSON,  Charles  Lutwidge,  clergyman 
and  scholar,  b.  about  1833  ;  d.  1898.  Popularly 
known  by  his  pseudonym  "  Lewis  Carroll.  ' 
Educated  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  Entered 
the  Church,  but  became  a  lecturer  on  mathe- 
matics. His  first  story  for  children,  "  Alice's 
Adventures  in  Wonderland,"  was  published  in 
1865.  Author  also  of  "Phantasmagoria,"  a 
collection  of  poems  and  parodies,  1869; 
"Through  the  Looking-Glass,"  1872;  "The 
Hunting  of  the  Snark,"  1876;  "Doublets," 
1879;  and  "Rhyme  and  Reason,"  1883. 

DOMETT,  Alfred,  colonial  statesman,  b. 
Camberwell  Grove,  Surrey,  1811  ;  d.  London, 
1887.  Studied  at  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 
Was  called  to  the  bar,  1841.  Went  to  New  Zea- 
land in  1842.  and  remained  there  for  thirty  years, 
during  which  time  he  held  important  political 
offices.  Published  his  first  book  of  poems  in 
1833.  Some  of  his  verses,  which  appeared  in 
"  Black  wood's  Magazine  "  in  1837,  attracted  a 
great  deal  of  attention.  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia  " 
was  issued  in  1872  :  and  "  Flotsam  and  Jetsam  ; 
Rhymes  Old  and  New,"  1877.  He  was  thought 
to  be  the  "  Waring  "  of  Browning's  poem  by 
that  name, 


DOWDEN,  Edward,  critic,  b.  Cork,  1843. 
Was  graduated  with  honors  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  A  divinity  student  for  two  years,  and, 
later,  President  of  the  Philosophical  Society. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-four  was  appointed  Pro- 
fessor of  English  Literature  at  Trinity.  An 
accomplished  student  andeditor  of  Shakespeare. 
His  "  Poems  "  appeared  in  1877.  "Studies  in 
Literature,"  1878,  has  been  supplemented  by  a 
collection  of  more  recent  essays,  "  New  Studies 
in  Literature,"  1895.  One  of  the  most  import- 
ant of  his  later  works  is  the  "  Life  of  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley,"  in  two  volumes. 

DOWLING,  Bartholomew,  b.  Limerick, 
Ireland,  182-.  Was  clerk  to  the  treasurer  of 
the  Corporation  of  Limerick.  Resided  for  a 
time  in  the  United  States.  Is  known  by  his 
lyric,  "The  Brigade  at  Fontenoy^'  and  by  "The 
Revel."  The  latter  poem  has  been  errone- 
ously attributed  to  Alfred  Domett. 

DOWNING,  Ellen  Mary  Patrick,  b.  Cork, 
1828  ;  d.  1869.  In  her  youth  contributed  to  the 
"Nation,"  and  was  known  as  "Mary  of  the 
Nation." 

DOYLE,  Sir  Francis  Hastings,  barrister,  b. 
Nunappleton,  Yorkshire,  1810 ;  d.  1888.  Edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  Christ  Church,  Oxford. 
Called  to  the  bar,  1831.  Held  an  appointment  in 
the  Customs,  and  was  made  Professor  of  Poetry 
at  Oxford,  1K67,  occupying  the  chair  for  ten 
years.  Published  his  first  volume,  1840.  selec- 
tions from  which  were  reprirted  in  "  The  Re- 
turn of  the  Guards,  and  other  Poems,  '  1£66. 
His  "Reminiscences"  appeared  in  1886. 

DTJFFERIN,  Helen  Selina  (Sheridan), 
Lady,  afterwards  Lady  Gifford,  granddaughter 
of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  and  sister  of  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Norton,  b.  1807  ;  d.  1867.  Married 
Mr.  Price  Blackwood,  who  became  Lord  Duf- 
ferin  in  1839,  and  died  in  1841.  She  wrote 
many  beautiful  songs  and  lyrics.  A  posthumous 
collection  of  her  poems,  edited  by  her  son,  Lord 
Dufferin,  has  recently  (1895)  appeared. 

DUFFY,  Sir  Charles  Gavan,  journalist,  b. 
Cork,  1816.  Editor  and  one  of  the  founders 
of  the  "Nation."  Joined  the  Irish  Confede- 
racy, a  branch  of  the  Young  Ireland  Party,  in 
1847.  Went  to  Australia  in  1856,  where  he 
held  several  important  offices.  Was  knighted 
in  1877. 

DUTT,  Toru,  b.  Calcutta,  1856 ;  d.  Calcutta, 
1877.  In  1869,  her  father,  a  high-caste  Hindu, 
took  her  with  her  sister  Aru  to  Europe  to 
study  English  and  French.  After  visiting. Italy 
and  England  she  returned,  to  her  Indian  home, 
in  1873.  Her  first  book,  "Sheaf  Gleaned  in 
French  Fields,"  was  published  at  Bhowani- 
pore,  1876.  The  little  volume  of  her  poems. 
"  Ancient  Ballads  and  Legends  of  Hindustan," 
with  a  memoir  by  Edmund  Gosse,  came  out  m 
1882. 

DTJVAB,  J.  H.  —  See  John  Hunter-Duvar. 

EDMESTON,  James,  architect,  b.  Wap- 
ping,  London,  1791 ;  d.  Homerton.  1867.  A 
well-known  writer  of  hymns.  Published  hit 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


689 


first  volume  of  poems  in  1817,  and  another  in 
1847,  the  latter  being-  a  select  collection. 

"ELIOT,  GEOBGE."  — See  M.  A.  E. 
(Lewes)  Cross. 

ELLIOT,  Lady  Charlotte,  b.  183-.  Daugh- 
ter of  Sir  James  Carnegie,  and  sister  of  the 
sixth  earl  of  Southesk.  Was  married  to  F.  F. 
Scrymsoure-Fothringham  in  1860.  Her  second 
husband  was  Frederick  Boileau  Elliot.  Her 
"  Medusa  and  other  Poems  "  appeared  in  1878. 

ELLIOTT,  Charlotte,  b.  Brighton,  1789; 
d.  1871.  Became  a  confirmed  invalid,  but  for 
many  years  edited  "  The  Christian  Remem- 
brancer Pocket-Book, "  and  contributed  largely 
to  and  revised  the  "Invalid's  Hymn  Book." 

ELLIOTT,  Ebenezer.  known  as  the  "  Corn 
Law  Rhymer,"  b.  Wasborough,  Yorkshire, 
1781  ;  d.  Argilt  Hill,  1849.  Son  of  a  poorly- 
paid  clerk  in  an  iron  foundry,  his  opportunities 
for  acquiring  an  education  were  limited.  The 
beginning  of  his  business  career  was  a  failure : 
but  in  1821  he  started  as  an  ironworker  in  Shef- 
field, and  in  1841  was  able  to  retire  to  a  small 
estate  near  Barnsley  Hill,  where  he  passed  the 
remainder  of  his  days.  "Corn  Law  Rhymes," 
with  "The  Ranter,"  appeared  in  1827  ;  "The 
Village  Patriarch,"  1829.  Was  also  a  contribu- 
tor to  Bulwer's  "  New  Monthly  Magazine." 

EVANS,  Sebastian,  barrister  and  journal- 
ist, b.  Market  Bosworth,  Leicestershire,  1830. 
Was  graduated  at  Emmanuel  College,  Cam- 
bridge, 1853.  Received  degree  of  LL.D.,  1868. 
Editor  of  the  "  Birmingham  Daily  Gazette  "  for 
three  years.  Called  to  the  bar,  1873,  and  some 
years  later  became  editor  of  the  "People,"  a 
conservative  journal.  "  Brother  Fabian's  Manu- 
script and  other  Poems"  was  issued  in  1865, 
and  "  In  the  Studio  "  in  1875. 

FABEB,  Frederick  "William,  churchman, 
b.  Yorkshire,  1814  ;  d.  1863.  Educated  at  Har- 
row and  Oxford.  Entered  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, but  in  1845  became  a  Roman  Catholic. 
Was  received  into  the  Oratory  of  St.  Philip 
Neri,  and  in  1849  was  appointed  Superior  of  the 
Oratory  at  London.  Published  several  prose 
works,  but  is  known  chiefly  by  his  hymns,  a 
complete  edition  of  which  appeared  in  1862. 

"FATHER  PROUT."  — See  Francis  Ma- 
honey. 

FERGUSON,  Sir  Samuel,  scholar,  b.  Bel- 
fast, 1810;  d.  1886.  Educated  at  Trinity 
College,  Dublin.  Admitted  to  the  Bar,  1838. 
Was  made  Deputy  Keeper  of  the  Records  of 
Ireland,  1867,  knighted  in  1878,  and  elected 
President  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  1882. 
Author  of  "Lays  of  the  Western  Gael,"  1865  ; 
"  Congal,"  an  epic  poem,  1867,  and  of  several 
articles  on  Irish  antiquities. 

FIELD,  Michael,  the  Parnassian  name  of 
two  unmarried  ladies,  aunt  and  niece,  whose 
reserve  is  properly  held  in  respect  by  the  edito- 
rial guild.  Authors  of  "  Calirrhoe  and  "Fair 
Rosamond,"  1884 ;  "The  Father's  Tragedy," 
etc.,  1885;  " Canute  the  Great,"  1887;  "The 


Tragic  Mary,"  1890,  and  other  vigorous  poetic 
dramas,  as  well  as  the  lyrical  volumes  entitled. 
"Long  Ago,"  1889;  "Sight  and  Song,"  1892. 
and  "Under  the  Bough,"  1893. 

FITZGERALD,  Edward,  b.  Suffolk.  1809  ; 
d.  Norfolk,  1883.  Took  a  degree  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  His  translations  from  the 
Spanish,  the  Greek,  and  the  Persian,  most  of 
which  were  issued  anonymously,  reproduce  the 
quality  of  the  originals  with  such  taste  and 
poetic  feeling  as  to  be  almost  original  works  in 
themselves.  His  best  known  translations  are 
"  Euphranor,  a  Dialogue  on  Youth,"  1851 ; 
"Polonius,  a  Collection  of  Wise  Saws  and 
Modern  Instances,"  1852 ;  "  Six  Dramas  of  Cal- 
deron,"  1853;  and  the"  Rnbaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam,"  his  greatest  work,  1859.  A  superb 
American  edition  of  the  Rubaiyat,  illustrated 
by  Elihu  Vedder's  imaginative  series  of  de- 
signs, was  brought  out  in  1884. 

FOX,  William  Johnson,  preacher  and  man 
of  letters,  b.  Suffolk,  1786 ;  d.  1864.  Studied 
for  the  Orthodox  ministry,  and  finally  became 
a  radical  Unitarian  pastor  at  Chichester,  and 
at  the  celebrated  Finsbury  Chapel,  London. 
Wrote  for  various  periodicals  and  was  an  elo- 
quent speaker.  Greatly  interested  in  questions 
of  reform.  A  memorial  edition  of  his  works 
was  published  in  twelve  volumes,  1868. 

FRASER-TYTLER,  C.  C.  — See  Catherine 
C.  Liddell. 

GALE,  Norman,  b.  Kew,  Surrey,  1862.  Edu- 
cated at  Oxford  and  then  took  up  teaching,  but 
since  1892  has  devoted  his  time  almost  entirely 
to  literature.  "  A  Country  Muse  "  appeared  in 
1892,  followed  by  "  Orchard  Songs  "  and  "  A 
Country  Muse:  Second  Series,"  in  1893,  and 
"A  Jime  Romance"  (prose)  and  "Cricket 
Songs,"  1894. 

GARNETT,  Richard,  librarian,  b.  Lich- 
field,  1835.  Became  an  assistant  in  the  Library 
of  the  British  Museum  at  the  age  of  sixteen, 
and  has  risen  to  his  present  dignity  of  Keeper, 
and  is  widely  known  and  esteemed.  In  1883 
the  University  of  Edinburgh  conferred  upon 
him  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  His  "  Primula  and 
other  Poems  "  appeared  in!858;  "loin  Egypt," 
1859;  "  Iphigenia  in  Delphi,"  1890;  and 
"  Poems,"  a  collective  edition,  1893. 

GILBERT,  William  Schwenck,  dramatist, 
b.  London,  1836.  Educated  at  Great  Baling 
and  at  King's  College.  Obtained  a  clerkship 
and  afterwards  became  a  barrister,  but  finally 
gave  all  his  time  to  literature.  Has  collaborated 
with  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan  in  the  production  of 
many  popular  light  operas.  Author  of  "  Bab 
Ballads  "  and  a  number  of  dramas. 

GILFILLAN,  Robert,  b.  Dunfermline, 
1798;  d.  Leith,  1850.  The  son  of  a  master 
weaver,  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  cooper,  but 
after  acting  as  merchants'  clerk  for  several 
years,  finally  became  collector  of  police  rates  at 
Leith.  Contributed  to  various  Scotch  peri- 
odicals and  to  the  anthology,  "  Whistle  Binkie." 
A  collection  of  his  works,  with  a  prefatory  bi- 
ography, was  published  after  his  death  in  1851. 


690 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


GILL,  Frances  Tyrrell.  Victoria,  Australia. 
No  collection  of  her  poems  has  been  made, 
although  she  contributed  much  to  Australian 
periodicals. 

GILLINGTON,  Alice  E.,  b.  Cheshire.  Is 
the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  and  has  passed 
in  iirli  of  her  life  in  the  south  of  England.  Con- 
jointly with  her  sister  she  published  "  Poems  " 
in  1892.  Is  a  frequent  contributor  to  periodicals 
.11  England  and  the  United  States. 

GILL1NGTON,  M.  C.— See  Mary  C.  Byron. 

GOODCHILD,  John  Arthur,  physician, 
b.  1851.  Educated  at  the  Philberds,  Maiden- 
head, and  St.  George's  Hospital.  Practiced 
medicine  at  Baling,  and  for  the  past  fifteen 
years  at  Bordighera,  Italy.  Has  published 
three  series  of  "Somnia  Medici,"  the  first  ap- 
pearing in  1884.  "  Lyrics  and  Tales  in  Verse  " 
was  issued  in  1893. 

GORDON",  Adam  Lindsay,  b.  Fayal  in  the 
Azores,  1833 ;  d.  1870.  Son  of  a  distinguished 
English  officer.  After  receiving  a  college  edu- 
cation and  developing  a  somewhat  wild  and 
adventurous  spirit,  he  left  England  in  1853  for 
South  Australia.  There  he  was  a  trooper  in 
the  mounted  police,  and  afterwards  followed 
various  occupations,  but  without  continued  suc- 
cess. About  1867  he  settled  in  Melbourne,  and 
was  considered  "  the  best  amateur  steeple-chase 
rider  in  the  colonies."  Here  he  published  his 
first  book,  "  Sea  Spray  a«d  Smoke  Drift," 
1808.  His  racy  ballads  of  the  bush  and  turf 
made  him  the  most  striking  figure  among  the 
Australian  poets.  Disappointment  and  ex- 
posure undermined  his  health,  and  in  a  fit  of 
despair  he  died  by  his  own  hand.  Collective 
editions  of  his  poems,  with  a  memoir,  are  pub- 
lished in  London  and  Melbourne. 

GOSSE,  Edmund  (William),  critic  and 
literary  historian,  b.  London,  1849.  Son  of 
Philip  Henry  Gosse,  the  naturalist.  Was  as- 
sistant librarian  at  the  British  Museum.  1867, 
and  after  1875  translator  to  the  Board  of  Trade. 
Elected  Clark  Lecturer  in  English  Literature 
at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  during  the 
season  of  1884-85  delivered  the  Lowell  Lectures 
in  the  United  States.  Mr.  Gosse  is  a  Norse 
scholar,  and  an  authoritative  writer  upon  Scan- 
dinavian literature.  Is  actively  engaged  in 
critical  journalism.  Has  published  "Madri- 
gals, Songs  and  Sonnets,"  1870  ;  "On  Viol  and 
Flute,"  1873  ;  "  King  Erik,"  a  drama,  and 
"  New  Poems,"  1879;  "  Firdausi  in  Exile,  and 
other  Poems,"  1886 ;  "  In  Russet  and  Silver," 
1894. 

GRAVES,  Alfred  Perceval,  Civil  Service, 
b.  Dublin,  1846.  Son  of  the  Bishop  of  Limer- 
ick. Educated  in  England  and  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin.  Has  held  various  positions  in  the 
Civil  Service,  London.  His  "  Songs  of  Killar- 
ney  "  was  published  in  1873  •  "  Irish  Songs  and 
Ballads,"  1882;  "Songs  of  Irish  Wit  and  Hn- 
mor,"  1894;  "The  Irish  Song  Book,"  1894. 

GRAY,  David,  b.  Kirkintulloch,   1838;  d. 


1861.  His  home  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Lug- 
gie,  the  little  stream  celebrated  in  his  poem. 
In  1860  he  went  to  London,  but  met  with  dis- 
appointments, and,  his  health  failing,  he  went 
home  to  die.  "  The  Luggie  and  other  Poems," 
including  a  series  of  sonnets,  "In  the  Sha- 
dows," was  published  after  his  death,  with  an 
introduction  by  Lord  Houghton. 

GREENWELL,  Dora  (Dorothy),  b.  on  the 
family  estate,  Greenwell  Ford,  Lanchester, 
Durham,  1S21  ;  d.  Clifton,  1882.  Remained  at 
Greenwell  Ford  until  1848.  Afterwards  re- 
sided at  Northumberland,  Durham,  and  Lon- 
don. Contributed  to  the  "  Contemporary  Re- 
view." Author  of  several  books  of  poetry, 
among  which  are  "Carmina  Crucis,"  1871,  and 
"Songs  of  Salvation,"  1873. 

GRIFFIN,  Gerald,  novelist,  b.  Limerick, 
1803 ;  d.  Cork,  1840.  Went  to  London  at  the 
age  of  nineteen.  In  1827  published  his  first 
volume  of  Irish  stories,  "Holland  Tide."  This 
was  followed  by  another  series  of  tales  and  by 
his  novel,  "  The  Collegians."  Joined  the  order 
of  the  Christian  Brothers  in  1838.  After  his 
death  his  works  were  brought  together  in  a 
uniform  edition. 

HAKE.  Thomas  Gordon,  anatomist,  b. 
Leeds,  1809;  d.  1894.  Educated  at  Christ's 
Church  School,  London,  and  studied  medicine 
at  Edinburgh,  the  University  of  Glasgow,  and 
in  France.  Became  a  specialist  in  comparative 
osteology,  and  wrote  a  number  of  treatises  on 
that  and  kindred  subjects.  Published  "  Made- 
line and  Other  Poems,"  1871 ;  "Parables  and 
Tales,"  1872;  "New  Symbols,"  1876;  "Le- 
gends of  the  Morrow,"  18751 ;  "  Maiden  Ec- 
stasy," 1880 ;  "  The  Serpent  Play,"  1883  ;  "  The 
New  Day,"  a  book  of  sonnets,  1890. 

HALL,  Christopher  Newman,  clergyman, 
b.  Maidstone,  Kent,  1816.  Graduate  of  London 
University,  Pastor  of  Albion  Chapel,  Hull,  and 
of  Surrey  Chapel,  London.  Has  often  visited 
America,  and  the  tower  of  his  present  church 
is  named  "  Lincoln,"  after  the  Emancipator. 

HALLAM,  Arthur  Henry,  b.  London, 
1811 ;  d.  Vienna,  1833.  Son  of  Henry  Hallam, 
historian,  and  comrade  of  Tennyson,  who  com- 
memorated him  in  "  In  Memoriam."  Took  his 
degree  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  1832. 
Author  of  some  noteworthy  essays  and  of  poems 
which  were  to  have  been  published  with  those 
of  the  friend  who  afterward  became  his  elegist. 

HAMERTON,  Philip  Gilbert,  artist  and 
art-critic,  b.  Laneside,  Lancashire,  1834  ;  d. 
Boulogne-sur-Seine,  1894.  Educated  at  Burn- 
ley and  Doncaster  Grammar  Schools,  and  pre- 
pared for  Oxford  but  did  not  matriculate. 
Studied  art  in  Paris,  and  in  1861  took  up  a  per- 
manent residence  in  France.  In  1869  founded 
"The  Portfolio,"  which  he  edited  until  hi» 
death.  His  "Etching  and  Etchers,"  1868,  has 
never  been  supplanted  as  an  authority  on  the 
art  of  etching.  Author,  also,  of  "  The  Intel- 
lectual Life,"  1873;  "The  Graphic  Arts." 
1882;  "Human  Intercourse,"  1884;  "Land 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


691 


scape,"  1885;  "Man  in  Art,"  1893.  His  early 
volume  of  poetry,  "The  Isles  of  Loch  Awe," 
appeared  in  1859. 

HANMER,  John,  1st  Lord,  politician,  b. 
1809 ;  d.  Knotley  Hall,  near  Tunbridge  Wells, 
1881.  Educated  at  Eton  and  Christ  Church, 
Oxford.  An  advocate  of  political  reform.  Pub- 
lished "Fra  Cipollaand  Other  Poems,"  1839; 
"Sonnets,"  1840. 

HARPUR,  Charles,  government  service,  b. 
New  South  Wales,  1817  ;  d.  18(58.  Educated  at 
the  Government  School.  Originally  a  squatter 
and  farmer,  he  was  appointed  to  the  gold  com- 
missionership  at  Araluen  in  1858.  Published  a 
volume  of  sonnets  in  1840,  and  an  edition  of  his 
poems  appeared  in  1883. 

HARRISON,  S.  Prances  ("  Seranus  ")  b. 
Toronto,  Canada,  of  Irish  parentage.  In  1879 
was  married  to  Mri  J.  W.  F.  Harrison,  an  Eng- 
lish professor  of  music.  She  has  contributed  to 
Canadian  periodicals  for  a  number  of  years, 
using  the  pseudonym  "Seranus."  In  addition 
to  her  poems,  "  Pine,  Kose,  and  Fleur  de  Lys," 
1890,  she  has  compiled  an  anthology  of  the  Ca- 
nadian poets,  and  has  produced  a  volume  of 
short  stories. 

HARTLEY,  John,  a  Yorkshire  miner, 
whose  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  1872. 
His  poem,  "  To  a  Daisy,"  was  given  to  the  pres- 
ent editor  from  memory  by  Mr.  David  Christie 
Murray. 

HAVERGAL,  Frances  Ridley,  daughter 
of  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Havergal,  b.  Astley,  1836 ; 
d.  Swanna,  South  Wales,  1879.  A  fine  musician 
and  linguist.  Contributed  to  religious  periodi- 
cals, and  has  published  several  little  volumes  of 
hymns  and  verse. 

HAWKER,  Robert  Stephen,  clergyman,  b. 
Plymouth,  1804;  d.  Plymouth,  1875.  Educated 
at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford.  A  stalwart  and 
heroic  character.  In  1834  became  Vicar  of  Mor- 
wenstow,  a  lonely  parish  on  the  Cornish  coast. 
His  "  Echoes  from  Old  Cornwall"  appeared  in 
1845  ;  "  Cornish  Ballads,"  in  1869.  Joined  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  shortly  before  his 
death.  His  poetical  works,  memoir,  etc.,  were 
published  in  1879. 

HEAVYSEQE,  Charles,  journalist,  b. 
Yorkshire,  1816  ;  d.  Montreal,  1869.  A  wood- 
carver  by  trade,  and  mainly  self-educated. 
Emigrated  to  Montreal,  1853,  where  he  became 
a  writer  for  the  press..  "Saul:  a  Drama  in 
three  Parts,"  appeared  in  1857,  and  impressed 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  then  consul  at  Liverpool, 
to  such  an  extent  that  he  brought  it  to  the 
notice  of  the  ''North  British  Review,  "in  which 
it  was  reviewed  at  length  in  1858.  Heavysege's 
"  Ode  on  Shakespeare  "  and  "  Jephtha's  Daugh- 
ter "  were  published  in  1855. 

HERVEY,  Thomas  Kibble,  editor,  b. 
Paisley,  1799  ;  d.  Kentish  Town,  London,  1859. 
Studied  law,  but  soon  adopted  a  literary  career. 
Went  to  London  about  1820.  Contributed  to 
the  "Art  Journal,"  and  edited  the  "Athe- 


naeum "  for  several  years.  His  poems  were  col- 
lected and  published,  with  a  memoir,  by  his 
widow,  in  1866. 

HICKEY,  Emily  Henrietta,  b.  Wexford 
County,  Ireland,  1845.  Contributed  to  the 
"Cornhill  Magazine,"  "Academy,"  and  other 
periodicals.  "  A  Sculptor  and  Other  Poems" 
appeared  in  1881,  and  in  the  same  year  she 
assisted  in  founding  the  Browning  Society. 
"  Verse  Tales,  Lyrics  and  Translations  "  was 
published  in  1889,  and  "  Michael  Villiers,  Ideal- 
ist, and  Other  Poems,"  in  1891. 

HINKSON,  Katharine  (Tynan),  b.  Dub- 
lin, 1861.  Educated  at  the  Dominican  Convent 
of  St.  Catherine  of  Siena,  Drogheda.  Pub- 
lished her  first  book,  "  Louise  de  la  Valliere 
and  other  Poems,"  1885.  "Shamrocks"  ap- 
peared in  1887 ;  "  Ballads  and  Lyrics,"  in  1892 ; 
and  "Cuckoo  Songs," in  1894.  Contributes  to. 
leading  journals  in  England  and  the  United 
States. 

HOME,  F.  Wyville,  b.  Edinburgh,  1851. 
Author  of  "  Songs  of  a  Wayfarer,"  1878  ;  "  Lay 
Canticles  and  Other  Poems,"  1883;  "The 
Wrath  of  the  Fay,"  1887. 

HOOD,  Thomas,  journalist,  b.  London,  1799; 
d.  London,  1845.  Studied  engraving,  but,  that 
profession  disagreeing  with  his  health,  he  turned 
his  attention  to  literature.  Was  employed  as 
sub-editor  on  the  "London  Magazine,"  and  his. 
early  work  comprised  examples  of  nearly  all  the 
styles  of  composition  in  which  he  afterward  ex-  • 
celled.  The  two  series  of  "  Whims  and  Oddi- 
ties" appeared  1826-27,  and  were  followed  by 
the  now  entirely  forgotten  "National  Tales." 
Then  came  the  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fai-- 
ries,"  the  dramatic  romance  "  Lamia, ""  Tyl- 
ney  Hall,"  and  many  exquisite  songs  and  bal- 
lads. "  Miss  Kilmansegg, ' '  a  lyrical  extravagan- 
za, is  the  best  example  of  his  serio-comic  style. 
"  The  Song  of  the  Shirt "  and  "  The  Bridge  of 
Sighs  "are  everywhere  familiar.  Was  editor 
successively  of  the  * '  Gem  ' '  and  the  ' '  New 
Monthly  Magazine."  Afterwards  established 
' '  Hood's  Magazine, ' '  and  published  the ' '  Comic 
Annual."  He  had  the  faculty  of  blending 
mirth  and  pathos  in  his  poetry  as  in  his  life,  his 
own  experience  being  a  struggle  against  poverty 
and  ill  health,  which  he  maintained  with  cheer- 
ful fortitude.  In  1854  a  monument  was  erected 
above  his  grave  in  Kensal  Green,  adorned  with 
bas-reliefs  suggested  by  "The  Dream  of  Eu- 
gene Aram  "  and  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs,"  and 
inscribed  with  the  legend,  "He  sang  the  Song 
of  the  Shirt."  Cp.  ''Victorian  Poets,"  chap, 
iii. 

HORNE,  Herbert  P.,  architect,  b.  London, 
1864.  About  1882,  began  the  study  of  art  with 
Selwyn  Image,  and  with  him,  in  1886,  started 
the  "  Hobby  Horse,"  but  afterwards  assumed 
the  sole  editorship  of  that  magazine.  An  ex- 
pert with  relation  to  printing  and  the  decora- 
tion of  books.  "  Diversi  Colores,"  a  small  vol- 
ume of  verse,  appeared  in  1891. 

HORNE,  Richard  Hengist  (originally  Hen- 


692 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


ry),  dramatist  and  poet,  b.  London,  1803  ;  d. 
Margate,  18<-!4.  An  adventurous  wanderer  of 
the  purely  English  type  of  Trelawny,  Domett, 
and  Oliphant.  Spent  years  in  Australia  and 
other  lands,  and  served  in  the  Mexican  army 
during  the  war  with  the  United  States.  In  his 
old  age  settled  down  in  London,  poor  in  means, 
but  a  picturesque  and  impressive  figure.  He 
began  his  literary  career  in  1S28,  with  a  poem  in 
the  "  Athenaeum,"  and  developed  virile,  almost 
Elizabethan,  dramatic  genius  as  a  poet.  He 
was  throughout  life  a  prolific,  uneven  writer  of 
prose  and  verse,  but  among  his  superior  dramas 
are  "  Cosmo  de'  Medici,"  1837  :  "  The  Death  of 
Marlowe,"  1837;  "  Gregory  VII,"  1840;  "  Ju- 
.das  Iscariot,"  1848;  "Prometheus  the  Fire- 
Bringer,"  1864.  His  still  famous  allegorical 
epic  of  "Orion"  was  first  issued  at  the  price 
of  a  farthing.  In  1844,  conjointly  with  Mrs. 
Browning  and  Robert  Bell,  he  published  "  A 
New  Spirit  of  the  Age,"  a  series  of  critical 
essays.  It  was  after  his  visit  to  Australia  that 
he  styled  himself  "  Hengist."  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's letters  to  him  were  published  in  two  vol- 
umes, 1877.  [E.  c.  s.] 

HOUGHTON,  Richard  Monckton  Milnes, 
Lord,  parliamentarian,  b.  London,  1809 ;  d. 
Vichy,  1885.  Educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  formed  friendships  with 
Tennyson,  Hallam,  Trench,  and  others.  En- 
tered Parliament  in  1837,  and  during  his  politi- 
•  cal  career  took  an  active  part  in  leading  move- 
ments of  the  time.  Was  raised  to  the  peerage 
by  Lord  Palmerston  in  1863.  He  was  ahvays 
ready  to  befriend  young  writers  and  artists, 
and  gathered  about  him  a  circle  of  the  most 
•brilliant  men  of  the  day.  Published  several 
volumes  of  travel  on  the  Continent,  and 
"Poems  of  Many  Years,"  1838;  "Memorials 
•of  Many  Seasons,"  1840  ;  "  Poetry  for  the  Peo- 
ple," 1840  ;  "Poems,  Legendary  and  Histori- 
cal," 1844 ;  "  Palm  Leaves,"  1844  ;  "  Life  and 
•Letters  of  Keats,"  1848. 

HOWITT,  "William  and  Mary,  miscella- 
neous writers.  William  b.  Derbyshire,  1792 ; 
d.  Rome,  1879.  Mary  (Botham)  b.  Coleford,  in 
the  Forest  of  Dean,  about  1799 ;  d.  Rome,  1888. 
Married  in  1820,  and  worked  together  in  a  kind 
of  literary  partnership.  Published  their  first 
volume  of  poems,  "The  Forest  Minstrel,"  in 
1823,  followed  by  "  The  Desolation  of  Eyam," 
1827.  William  Howitt  was  the  author  of  ' '  The 
Book  of  the  Seasons,"  1831,  and  "  The  Homes 
and  Haunts  of  the  British  Poets,"  1847.  Mrs. 
Howitt  translated  the  works  of  Frederika  Bre- 
•mer  into  English,  and  wrote  a  number  of  chil- 
dren's stories. 

HUNTER-BIT  VAR,  John,  b.  England, 
1830.  Has  lived  most  of  his  life_  in  Canada. 
For  a  time  held  an  appointment  in  the  Cana- 
dian Civil  Service.  His  prose  and  verse  have 
appeared  in  English  and  American  periodicals, 
and  he  has  made  a  number  of  translations. 
Published  "  De  Roberval,"  a  drama  of  early 
Canadian  romance,  1888  ;  "  The  Triumph  of 
Constancy,"  18 — ;  "Annals  of  the  Court  of 
Oberon,"  1895. 


HUXLEY,  Thomas  Henry,  scientist,  b. 
Baling,  Middlesex,  1825 ;  d.  Eastbourne,  Sus- 
sex, 1895.  In  1846  took  the  diploma  of  the 
Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  and  entered  the 
royal  navy  as  assistant  surgeon.  Rose  to  emi- 
nence as  a  biologist,  and  has  held  many  im- 
portant professorships.  Was  a  strong  supporter 
of  the  Darwinian  theory,  and  the  comrade  of 
Tyndall  and  Spencer.  Author  of  scientific 
works  of  the  highest  grade.  President  of  the 
Royal  Society,  1873-85.  The  following  lines, 
written  by  Mrs.  Huxley,  have  been  carved 
upon  his  tombstone,  in  compliance  with  his  own 
request  : 

And  if  there  be  no  meeting  past  the  grave, 
If  all  is  darkness,  silence,  yet  't  is  rest. 
Be  not  afraid,  ye  waiting  hearts  that  weep, 
For  God  still  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 
And  if  an  endless  sleep  He  wills  —  so  best ! 

IMAGE,  Selwyn,  artist,  b.  about  1850. 
Educated  at  Brighton  College  and  Marlborough, 
and  took  a  degree  at  New  College,  Oxford, 
1872.  Was  ordained  in  the  same  year,  and  con- 
tinued in  orders  until  1880,  when  he  gave  up 
clerical  work  altogether  and  began  the  study  of 
art.  With  Mr.  Herbert  Home,  he  started  the 
"  Hobby  Horse,"  1886. 

INGELOW,  Jean,  b.  Boston,  Lincolnshire, 
about  1830.  In  addition  to  her  poetical  works, 
has  written  several  popular  novels,  and  some 
stories  for  children.  Published  "  A  Rhyming 
Chronicle  of  Incident  and  Feeling,"  1850 ;  a 
first  series  of  "  Poems  "  in  1863,  which  instantly 
won  the  public  affection  in  both  England  and 
America,  and  was  followed  by  others  in  1865, 
1867,  1879,  1881,  and  1886.  Died,  London,  1897. 

"INGOLDSBY,  Thomas."  —See  Richard 
Harris  Barham. 

INGRAM,  John  Kells,  political  economist, 
b.  Newry,  near  Belfast,  1823.  Fellow  and  pro- 
fessor of  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  His  poijm, 
"Ninety-Eight,"  first  appeared  in  the  Dublin 
"  Nation." 

JAMESON,  Anna  Brownell,  b.  Dublin, 
1794:  d.  Baling,  Middlesex,  1860.  Eldest 
daughter  of  D.  Brownell  Mu-rphy,  a  miniature- 
painter.  Became  a  governess  at  the  age  of  six- 
teen, and  in  1825  married  Robert  Jameson.  In 
1846  she  visited  Italy  to  collect  material  for  her 
"  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art." 

JAPP,  Alexander  Hay,  journalist  and  critic, 
b.  Forfarshire,  Scotland,  1840.  Educated  at  the 
University  of  Edinburgh.  Became  a  contribu- 
tor to  Scottish  journals,  but  removed  to  Lon- 
don, where  he  formed  connections  with  "  Good 
Words"  and  the  "Sunday  Magazine."  Has 
been  an  industrious  and  successful  writer,  sign- 
ing the  pseudonym,  "  H.  A.  Page,"  to  many  of 
his  most  important  works.  Among  his  prose 
books  are  "  Three  Great  Teachers  of  our 
Time,"  "Thomas  De  Quincey  :  his  Life  and 
Writings,"  and  "  Hours  in  my  Garden."  His 
latest  volumes  in  verse  are  "  Circle  of  the  Year, 
a  Sonnet  Sequence."  privately  printed  in  1893, 
and  "  Dramatic  Pictures,  English  Rispetti, 
Sonnets,  and  other  Verse,"  1894. 

JOHNSON,  E.  Pauline,  b.  on  the  Grand 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


693 


River  Indian  Reserve,  Ontario,  1862.  Daughter 
of  the  head  chief  of  the  Mohawks,  her  mother 
being-  an  Englishwoman.  Has  written  verse  for 
English  and  American  journals,  a  collection  of 
which  is  announced  for  publication  in  England. 
JONES,  Ebenezer,  agitator,  b.  Islington, 
1820 ;  d.  Brentwood,  I860.  Was  reared  in  a 
Calvinistic  atmosphere,  but  being  of  a  passion- 
ate nature,  found  restraint  most  irksome.  Took 
a  clerkship  in  1837,  and  at  the  same  time  began 
his  literary  work,  which  he  pursued  under  diffi- 
culties. Issued  his  book  of  poems,  "  Studies  in 
Sensation  and  Event,"  in  1843,  but  subsequently 
devoted  himself  to  prose  writing  on  political 
subjects. 

JONES,  Ernest  Charles,  barrister,  b.  Berlin, 
Germany,  1819  ;  d.  Manchester,  1868.  Educated 
at  St.  Michael's  College,  Liineburg.  Called  to 
the  Bar  in  London,  1844.  Sacrificed  the  best 
years  of  his  life  to  writing  and  speaking  in  be- 
half of  social  reform,  and,  hi  1848,  was  impris- 
oned for  two  years  on  a  charge  of  sedition. 
Author  of  "The  Battle  Day,"  1855;  "The 
Emperor's  Vigil  and  other  Waves  of  War," 
1856  ;  "  Cory  don  and  Other  Poems,"  1860. 

JOYCE,  Robert  Dwyer,  physician  and  jour- 
nalist, b.  Glenosheen,  County  Limerick,  1830  ; 
d.  Dublin,  1883.  Went  to  the  United  States  in 
1866,  and  took  up  his  residence  in  Boston,  where 
he  practised  medicine  and  wrote  continually. 
A  sturdy  balladist  and  legendary  poet.  His 
"  Ballads  of  Irish  Chivalry  "  were  first  collected 
into  a  volume  in  Boston,  1872.  These  were  fol- 
lowed in  the  eighties  by  "  Deirdre,"  an  Irish 
epic,  and  "Blanid,"  the  former  of  which 
brought  its  author  into  general  repute. 

KEBLE,  John,  divine,  b.  Fairford,  1792  ; 
d.  Bournemouth,  1866.  Educated  at  Oxford. 
Became  a  college  tutor,  and  afterward  ac- 
cepted a  curacy.  Was  professor  of  Poetry  at 
Oxford,  1831-41.  Vicar  of  Hursley  from  1835 
until  his  death.  Author  of  several  prose  works 
in  addition  to  "  The  Christian  Year,"  1827 ; 
"Lyra  Innocentium,"  1845;  and  "Poems," 
issued  after  his  death.  \Vas  a  leader  in  the 
High  Church  movement,  afterwards  called 
Tractarianism.  Keble  College,  Oxford,  founded 
after  his  design,  now  bears  his  name. 

KELLY,  Mary  Eva  (Mrs.  Kevin  O'Do- 
herty).  b.  Galway.  and  now  living  in  Austra- 
lia. Was  one  of  the  regular  contributors  to 
the  "  Nation." 

KEMBLE,  Frances  Anne,  actress,  b.  Lon- 
don, 1809  ;  d.  1893.  Daughter  of  Charles  Kem- 
ble,  the  actor,  and  niece  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  Be- 
gan to  write  for  the  stage  at  an  early  age. 
Appeared  first  as  Juliet,  at  the  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  1809.  Made  a  professional  tour  of 
America  in  1832.  Married  Mr.  Pierce  Butler, 
of  South  Carolina,  and  was  divorced  in  1839. 
Lived  in  the  United  States  for  twenty  years, 
and  then  took  up  her  residence  in  England. 
Was  a  frequent  prose  writer,  and  published  two 
volumes  of  verse. 

KENDALL,  Henry  Clarence,  government 
service,  b.  New  South  Wales,  1841 ;  d.  near 


Sydney,  1882.  Held  an  appointment  at  one 
time  in  the  Civil  Service,  wrote  for  the  press, 
and  occupied  several  mercantile  positions.  In 
1881  was  made  Inspector  of  Forests.  Pub- 
lished "  Leaves  from  an  Australian  Forest," 
1869,  and  "Songs  from  the  Mountains,"  1880. 
His  collected  poems,  with  a  memoir  by  Alex- 
ander Sutherland,  were  issued  in  London. 

KENDALL,  May,  b.  Bridlington,  York- 
shire, 1861.  Author  of  "From  a  Garret,'' 
"White  Poppies,"  "Such  is  Life,"  "Dreams 
to  Sell,"  1887  ;  "  Songs  from  Dreamland,"  1894. 

KENT,  William  Charles  Mark  (known  as 
Charles  Kent),  journalist,  b.  London,  1823. 
Educated  at  Prior  Park  and  Oscott  Colleges. 
Editor  of  "  The  Sun  "  and  the  "Weekly  Reg- 
ister." Was  called  to  the  Bar,  Inner  Temple, 
1859.  His  collected  "Poems"  appeared  in 
1870. 

KENYON,  John,  b.  Jamaica,  1784;  d. 
Cowes,  1856.  Educated  at  Peterhouse,  Cam- 
bridge. Took  up  his  residence  at  Woodlands, 
Somerset,  where  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Coleridge,  Wordsworth,  Southey,  Lamb,  and 
other  noted  authors.  He  was  a  distant  rel- 
ative of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  and  first  made  her 
acquainted  with  the  poetry  of  Browning  and 
with  the  poet  himself,  and  afterward  remained 
the  beloved  friend  of  both,  bequeathing  six 
thousand  guineas  to  Mrs.  Browning,  and  four 
thousand  to  her  husband.  His  "Poems  for 
the  most  part  Occasional  "  appeared  in  1838  ; 
"  A  Day  at  Tivoli,  with  Other  Verse,"  1849. 

[E.  c.  s.] 

KING,  Harriet  Eleanor  (Hamilton),  b. 
Edinburgh,  1840.  Daughter  of  Admiral  W.  A. 
B.  Hamilton.  In  1863  married  Mr.  Henry  S. 
King.  Author  of  "  Aspromonte,"  1869  ;  "  The 
Disciple,"  1873;  "  Book  of  Dreams,"  1883. 

KINQSLEY,  Charles,  clergyman  and  nov- 
elist, b.  Holne  Vicarage,  Devonshire,  1819  ;  d. 
Eversley,  1875.  Educated  at  Clifton  and  at 
Magdalene  College,  Cambridge.  Ordained  in 
1842,  and  became  rector  of  Eversley  in  1844. 
An  active  worker  in  the  cause  of  social  reform, 
he  became  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  leaders 
of  the  Chartist  movement,  and,  in  1849,  pub- 
lished his  novel,  "  Alton  Locke,"  an  exposition 
of  the  aims  and  views  of  Chartism.  Was  made 
canon  of  Chester  in  1869,  and  canon  of  West- 
minster in  1873.  Of  his  poetical  works,  "  The 
Saint's  Tragedy  "  was  published  in  1848,  and 
"Andromeda  and  Other  Poems,"  in  Ib58. 
Author  of  litera'ry  essays  and  of  many  noted 
prose  works,  of  which  "Yeast,"  1851,  "  Hypa- 
tia,"  1853,  "  Glaucus,  or  the  Wonders  of  the 
Shore,"  1855,  "  Westward  Ho!"  1855,  "The 
Water-Babies,  a  Book  for  Children,"  1863,  and 
"  Prose  Idylls,"  1873,  are,  perhaps,  the  best 
known. 

KIPLING,  Rudyard,  romancer  and  ballad- 
ist, b.  Bombay,  1865.  Educated  in  England, 
but  returned  to  India  and  went  on  the  staff  of 
the  "  Lahore  Civil  and  Military  Gazette,"  and 
contributed  to  the  Indian  daily  press  until  1889, 
when  he  went  to  England,  and  quickly  achieved 


694 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


a  reputation  throughput  the  English-speaking 
world  by  his  dramatic  and  original  tales  and 
poems  of  Anglo-Indian  life.  Married  Miss  Ba- 
lestier, sister  of  Wolcott  Balestier,  and  took 
up  a  residence  in  the  United  States,  where  he 
now  lives.  His  first  volume  of  verse,"  Depart- 
mental Ditties,"  appeared  in  1886,  and  u  Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills"  in  1888.  "Soldiers 
Three"  and  "Barrack  Room  Ballads"  were 
published  in  America  in  1891.  Has  written 
two  novels,  in  one  of  which,  "  The  Naulahka," 
he  collaborated  with  Wolcott  Balestier.  "  The 
Jungle  Book,"  1894,  is  a  unique  and  imagina- 
tive production,  and  immediately  became  a 
favorite  with  young  and  old. 

KNOX,  Isa  (Craig),  b.  Edinburgh,  1831. 
Took  an  active  interest  in  social  science.  Her 
Ode  on  Burns  won  the  place  in  the  competition 
on  the  occasion  of  the  Burns  Centenary.  Was 
married  to  her  cousin,  Mr.  John  Knox,  of  Lon- 
don. Published  her  first  book  of  poems  in 
1856.  "Songs  of  Consolation"  appeared  in 
1874. 

LAINQ,  Alexander,  b.  Brechin,  Scotland, 
1787 ;  d.  Breehin,  1857.  Engaged  in  the  busi- 
ness of  flax-dressing,  and  afterwards  became  a 
pedler.  Contributed  to  local  newspapers  and  to 
"  Smith's  Scottish  Minstrels,"  "  Harp  of  Ren- 
frewshire," and  "  Whistle  Binkie."  Published 
a  collection  of  his  poems,  called  "  Wayside 
Flowers,"  in  1846. 

LAMPMAN,  Archibald,  Civil  Service,  b. 
Western  Ontario,  1861.  The  son  of  an  Angli- 
can clergyman.  Educated  and  took  a  degree 
at  the  University  of  Trinity  College,  Toronto. 
In  1883  received  an  appointment  in  the  Civil 
Service  at  Ottawa,  where  he  has  since  remained. 
His  "Among  the  Millet  and  Other  Poems" 
was  published  in  1888.  His  lyrics  appear  in  the 
leading  American  magazines. 

LANDOR,  Walter  Savage,  b.  Warwick,  30 
Jan.,  1775;  d.  Florence,  Italy,  17  Sept.,  1864. 
Was  a  classical  enthusiast  of  a  very  genuine 
type,  and  held  a  unique  position  in  literature. 
Never  popular  in  the  sense  of  being  widely  read 
by  the  common  people,  he  is  known  better  as  a 
prose-writer  than  as  a  poet.  Spent  the  latter 
years  of  his  life  in  Italy.  As  an  epigrammatist 
in  verse,  a  writer  of  elegant  bits  of  satire,  elegy, 
gallantry,  and  social  rhyme,  he  had  no  master 
in  the  English  tongue.  He  was  a  man  of  im- 
petuous temper,  which  involved  him  in  unfor- 
tunate quarrels  and  complications,  but  all 
through  his  life  he  showed  nobility  of  sentiment 
and  great  powers  of  tenderness  and  sympathy. 
He  was  an  ardent  Republican,  devoted  to  lib- 
erty, and  scornful  of  tyranny  in  all  forms.  Au- 
thor of  "  Imaginary  Conversations,"  1824 ; 
"Pericles  and  Aspasia,"  1836;  "The  Citation 
of  William  Shakespeare,"  1834;  and  the  "  Pen- 
tameron,"  1837.  His  plays  include  "  Andrea 
of  Hungary,"  "  Giovannaof  Naples,"  and  "  Fra 
Rupert."  His  Latin  poetry,  "  Poemata  et  In- 
scriptiones,"  was  published  in  1847.  In  the 
same  year,  the  exquisite  "Hellenics"  also  ap- 
peared, and  his  last  book,  "  Heroic  Idyls"  was 
issued  in  1863.  His  Life,  written  at  great  length 


by  John  Forster,  1867-69,  is  the  detailed  record 
of  a  restless,  versatile,  in  some  respects  heroic, 
and  wonderfully  prolonged,  literary  career. 
Cp.  "  Victorian  Poets,"  chap.  ii. 

LANG,    Andrew,   critic    and    essayist,    b. 

1844.  Educated  at  St.  Andrew's  University, 
and  Balliol  College,  Oxford.     Was  made  a  Fel- 
low  of  Merton,  1868.     He  has  made  notable 
translations  of  Homer,   Theocritus,    and    the 
Greek  Anthology,  and,  in  prose,  has  written 
numerous  biographical  and  critical  essays.    Au- 
thor of  "Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France," 
1872;  "XXII  Ballades  in  Blue  China,  "1880; 
"  Helen  of  Troy,"  1882 ;  "  Rhymes  a  la  Mode,'' 
1884  ;  "  Grass  of  Parnassus,"  1888 ;  also  of  sev- 
eral books  of  fairy  tales ;    "  Letters  to   Dead 
Authors,"    1886-    "Myth,   Ritual,    and    Reli- 
gion," 1887;  and  is  in  the   front  rank  of  the 
most  active  and  authoritative  English  men  of 
letters. 

LANGHORNE,  Charles  Hartley,  b.  Ber- 
wick-on-Tweed,  1818;  d.  1845.  Educated  at 
Glasgow  University  and  Oxford.  Was  study- 
ing law  at  the  time  of  his  premature  death. 

LAYCOCK,  Samuel,  b.  Marsden,  York- 
shire, 1825 ;  d.  Blackpool,  1893.  Was  employed 
in  a  mill,  but  began  writing  verse  in  his  youth. 
Published  "  Lancashire  Rhymes ;  or  Homely 
Pictures  of  the  People,"  1864 ;  "  Lancashire 
Songs,"  1866;  "  Lancashire  Poems,  Tales  and 
Recitations,"  1875.  Shortly  before  his  death, 
brought  out  a  collective  edition  of  his  works. 

LEAR,  Edward,  artist,  b.  Hollo  way,  Lon- 
don, 1812;  d.  San  Remo,  1888.  Resided  in 
Italy  for  a  number  of  years.  Painter  of  ani- 
mals and  landscape.  Published  several  volumes 
of  catching  "Nonsense  Verse." 

LEE-HAMILTON",   Eugene,    b.    London, 

1845.  Educated  in  France  and  Germany,  and 
went  to  Oxford  in  1864.    Entered   the  diplo- 
matic service,  but  while  Secretary  of  Legation 
at  Lisbon,  1873,  a  cerebro^spinal  disorder  de- 
veloped,  and  from  that  time   until  recently, 
when  his  condition  is  somewhat  improved,  he 
has  been  unable  to  leave  his  couch.     He  is  a 
half-brother  of  Miss  Violet  Paget   ("  Vernon 
Lee  ").     In  addition  to  several  other  volumes 
of  verse,  he  has  published  "The  Fountain   of 
Youth,"  1891,   and  "Sonnets  of  the  Wingless 
Hours,"  1894. 

LEFROY,  Edward  Craoroffc,  clergyman,  b. 
Westminster,  1855.  Related  to  Jane  Austen 
and  Sir  John  Franklin.  His  two  sisters  were 
married  io  Charles  and  Alfred  Tennyson.  Edu- 
cated at  Blackheath  School  and  Keble  College. 
Entered  the  church,  and  held  curacies  at  Lam- 
beth, Truro,  and  other  places,  until  1882.  Au- 
thor of  "  Echoes  of  Theocritus  and  other  Son- 
nets," 1885.  D.  1891. 

LE  GALLIENNE,  Richard,  b.  Birken- 
head,  1865.  Educated  at  the  Liverpool  College. 
Entered  upon  a  business  career,  but  soon  gave 
it  up  for  the  profession  of  letters.  Has  done 
successful  work  in  prose  as  well  as  verse.  His 
first  volume  of  poetry  was  privately  printed  in 
1887.  Later  works  are  "Volumes  in  Folio," 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


695 


1889 ;  "  George  Meredith  :  some  Characteris- 
tics," 1890;  "The  Book-Bills  of  Narcissus," 
1891;  "English  Poems,"  1892:  "Prose  Fan- 
cies," 1894.  He  has  also  edited  an  edition  of 
William  Hazlitt's  "  Liber  Amoris,"  1893. 

LEIGHTON,  Robert,  merchant,  b.  Dun- 
dee, 1822 ;  d.  Liverpool,  18(39.  Resided  chiefly 
at  Ayr. 

LEVY,  Amy,  novelist,  b.  Clapham,  1861  ; 
d.  London,  1H89.  Her  parents  were  of  the  Jew- 
ish faith.  Educated  at  Brighton  and  Newnham 
College.  Was  of  a  melancholy  temperament, 
and  died  by  her  own  hand.  Her  "  Xantippe 
and  Other  Poems "  was  published  in  1881.  a 
great  part  of  the  volume  reappearing  in  '  A 
Minor  Poet  and  Other  Verse,"  1884.  *  Reuben 
Sachs,"  a  novel,  and  the  volume  of  verse,  "A 
London  Plane  Tree,"  came  out  in  1889. 

LIDDELL,  Catherine  C.  (Fraser-Tytler), 
b.  1848.  Married  Mr.  Edward  Liddell.  Is  au- 
thor of  "Songs  in  Minor  Keys,"  published  in 
1881. 

LIGHTHALL,  W.  D.— See  W.  D.  Schuyler- 
Lighthall. 

LINDSAY,  Blanche  Elizabeth  (FitzRoy), 
Lady,  b .  1 844.  Daughter  of  the  Rt.  Hon.  Henry 
FitzRoy,  second  son  of  the  3d  Lord  Southamp- 
ton, and  of  Hannah  Meyer,  daughter  of  the  late 
Baron  Nathan-Meyer  Rothschild.  In  UCA  mar- 
ried Sir  Coutts  Lindsay,  Bart.,  of  Balcai-res, 
the  founder  of  the  Grosvenor  Gallery,  and  a 
painter.  She  is  a  successful  prose  writer,  and 
an  accomplished  musician  and  painter  in  water- 
colors.  Published,  in  verse,  "Lyrics,"  1890; 
"  A  Child's  Dream,"  and  "  A  String  of  Beads," 
1893. 

LINTON,  William  James,  b.  London, 
1812.  Noted  as  a  wood-engraver,  a  political 
agitator,  and  a  man  of  letters.  He  did  much 
to  advance  wood-engraving  in  America,  where 
he  lived  for  some  years,  and  he  contributed 
largely  to  literature  both  in  prose  and  verse. 
In  1854  he  founded  "  The  English  Republic,"  a 
periodical  devoted  to  social  science.  '  Claribel 
and  Other  Poems  "  was  published  in  1865  ;  "A 
History  of  Wood  Engraving  in  America,"  1882; 
"  Poems  and  Translations,"  1889.  He  edited 
"  Golden  Apples  of  Hesperus,"  1882 ;  and  a  su- 
perb work,  "The  Masters  of  Wood  Engraving," 
1889.  Linton  had  a  notable  career,  having  par- 
ticipated in  the  Corn  Law,  Irish,  and  Italian 
struggles,  and  was  always  in  the  van  as  a 
Radical.  From  his  private  press,  the  "Apple- 
dore,"  at  New  Haven,  Conn.,  he  issued  fre- 
quent metrical  brochures,  and  published  his 
"  Reminiscences,"  1894.  Died  in  that  city,  1898. 

LITTLE,  Lizzie  M.  Author  of  "  Perse- 
phone, and  Other  Poems,"  1884. 

LOCKER-LAMPSON,  Frederick,  b.  near 
London,  1821;  d.  at  his  place,  "Rowfant," 
Sussex,  1895.  Clerk  and  precis  writer  in  the 
Admiralty  for  a  number  of  years.  Added  the 
surname  Lampson  to  his  own  after  the  death  of 
Sir  Curtis  Lampson,  Bart.,  of  Rowfant,  father 


of  his  second  wife.  He  made  a  rare  collection 
of  books,  manuscripts,  and  autographs.  His 
daughter,  now  Mrs.  Augustine  Birrell,  was  first 
married  to  Lionel  Tennyson,  son  of  the  Laure- 
ate. Published  "London  Lyrics"  in  1862,  and 
"  Patchwork  "  (prose  and  verse),  1879,  and  ed- 
ited the  "  Lyra  Elegantiarum,"  1867. 

LOGAN,  John  E.,  insurance  adjuster,  b. 
Hamilton,  Canada,  1852  ;  about  twenty  yearc 
later  removed  to  Montreal,  where,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  a  few  years,  spent  in  the  Canadiar 
Northwest,  he  has  since  lived.  LTnder  the  pseu- 
donym of  "Barry  Dane"  he  has  contributed 
a  number  of  poems  to  the  newspapers  and  peri- 
odicals, but  they  have  never  been  published  in 
book  form. 

LOVER,  Samuel,  novelist  and  painter,  b. 
Dublin,  1797 ;  d.  Jersey,  18(58.  Was  successful 
as  a  miniature  painter,  and  became  a  member  of 
the  Irish  Academy  of  Arts.  Wrote  several 
very  popular  ballads  of  Irish  peasant  life,  which 
he  set  to  music  of  his  own  composition.  Went 
to  London,  where  he  was  very  popular.  Illus- 
trated his  prose  works  with  his  own  etchings. 
"Songs  and  Ballads"  appeared  in  1839,  and 
"  Handy  Andy,"  an  Irish  novel,  in  1842. 

LOWE,  Robert,  Viscount  Sherbrooke, 
statesman,  b.  Nottinghamshire,  England,  1811  ; 
d.  London,  1892.  Educated  at  Winchester  and 
University  College.  Oxford.  Went  to  Australia 
in  184;$,  where  Le  held  legislative  positions  ;  re- 
turned to  London  in  1851.  Prominent  figure  in 
English  politics  ;  was  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, I£(fc-lb7;;,  and  Home  .Secretary,  1873- 
1874.  "  Poems  of  Life  "  appeared  in  London, 
1855. 

LYALL,  Sir  Alfred  Comyns,  K.  C.  B.,  b. 
Coulstou,  Surrey,  1835.  Educated  at  Eton ;  and 
entered  the  Indian  civil  service,  in  which  he 
has  held  offices  of  high  distinction.  Has  pub- 
lished a  book  of  religious  and  social  studies  re- 
lating to  Asia ;  a  Biography  of  Warren  Hastings, 
and  a  volume  of  poems,  "  Verses  Written  in  In- 
dia," 1889. 

LYTE,  Henry  Francis,  clergyman,  b.  Ed- 
nam,  near  Kelso,  Scotland,  1793  ;  d.  Nice.  1847. 
Educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Entered 
the  ministry  of  the  Church  of  England  in  1X15 
Changed  parishes  several  times,  but  finally  be 
came  "  perpetual  curate  "  of  Lower  Brixham, 
Devonshire.  Published  "  Poems,  chiefly  Reli- 
gious," 1833,  and  "Spirit  of  the  Psalms,"  1834 
An  eclectic  volume  of  his  poems  was  brough 
out  in  1868. 

LYTTON,  Edward,  Lord  (Edwara 
George  Earle  Lytton  Bulwer-Lytton),  novel- 
ist, dramatist,  and  parliamentarian,  b.  London, 
1803,  d.  1873.  During  his  earlier  literary  career 
he  was  popularly  known  as  "  Bulwer."  The 
most  fertile  and  brilliant,  after  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  of  the  romantic  school  of  novelists.  Of 
his  many,  and  often  overwrought,  romances, 
"  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,"  1834,  and  "  Ri- 
enzi,"  1835,  will  always  have  a  place  in  English 
literature.  In  later  years,  his  novels  took  on 


696 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


a  more  intellectual  tinge,  as  is  seen  .in  "  The 
Caxtons,"  1850,  and  "  My  Novel,"  1853.  Like 
Disraeli,  he  wrote  to  his  dying  day,  and  found 
a  world  of  readers,  "  Kenelm  Chillingly  "  and 
"  The  Parisians,"  both  1873,  rivalling  Beacons- 
field's  "Lothair"  and  "  Endymion."  He  was 
graduated  at  Cambridge,  1826 ;  was  in  Parlia- 
ment 1831-41, 1852-66,  and  an  ambitious  orator ; 
was  Lord  Rector  of  Glasgow  University,  1856, 
and  Colonial  Secretary,  under  Lord  Derby,  1858. 
Raised  to  the  peerage,  1866.  His  eagerness  for 
fame,  and  his  versatile  gifts  and  industry,  were 
always  in  evidence.  As  a  dramatist  and  play- 
wright he  succeeded  well,  —  "  The  Lady  of 
Lyons,"  1838,  and  "  Richelieu,"  1838,  still  hold- 
ing the  stage.  Since  industry  and  ambition 
cannot  make  a  poet,  Bulwers  intense  longing 
to  obtain  a  lyric  crown  was  of  no  avail.  His 
"New  Timon,"  a  satire,  1846,  brought  him 
cause  for  regret.  His  epic,  "King  Arthur," 
1848,  and  "The  Lost  Tales  of  Miletus."  1866, 
showed  few  traces  of  the  divine  fire.  His  dra- 
matic verse,  after  all,  was  his  best  metrical 
work ;  but  in  addition  to  the  extract  from 
'•  Richelieu,"  and  the  song  given  in  this  Antho- 
logy, it  is  but  just  to  reprint  the  following 
Stanzas  which  have  passion  and  lyrical  quality. 
.  .  [E.  c.  s.] 

ABSENT  YET  PRESENT 

As  the  flight  of  a  river 

That  flows  to  the  sea, 
My  soul  rushes  ever 

In  tumult  to  thee. 

&  twofold  existence 

\  am  where  tliou  art ; 
My  heart  in  the  distance 

Beats  close  to  thy  heart. 

Look  up,  I  am  near  thee, 

I  gaze  on  thy  face  ; 
I  see  thee,  I  hear  thee. 

I  feel  thine  embrace. 

As  a  magnet's  control  on 

The  steel  it  draws  to  it, 
Is  the  charm  of  thy  soul  on 

The  thoughts  that  pursue  it. 

And  absence  but  brightens 

The  eyes  that  I  miss, 
And  custom  but  heightens 

The  spell  of  thy  kiss. 

It  is  not  from  duty, 
Though  that  may  be  owed,  - 

It  is  not  from  beauty, 
Though  that  be  bestowed  ; 

But  all  that  I  care  for, 

And  all  that  I  know, 
Is  that,  without  wherefore, 

I  worship  thee  so. 

Through  granite  it  breaketh 

A  tree  to  the  ray, 
As  a  dreamer  forsaketh 

The  grief  of  the  day, 

My  soul  in  its  fever 
Escapes  unto  thee ; 


O  dream  to  the  grlever, 

0  light  to  the  tree  ! 

A  twofold  existence 

1  am  where  thou  art ; 
Hark,  hear  in  the  distance 

The  beat  of  my  heart  ! 

LYTTON,  Earl  of  (Edward  Robert  But 
wer-Lytton),  diplomatist,  b.  London,  1831,  d. 
Paris,  1891.  Son  of  Edward,  Lord  Lytton. 
Educated  at  Harrow  and  Bonn.  Began  his  dip- 
lomatic career  as  attache1  at  Washington,  L).  C., 
and  was  subsequently  connected  with  the  British 
legations  in  most  of  the  important  European 
capitals.  Appointed  Viceroy  to  India  in  1876, 
and  advanced  in  the  peerage  as  Earl  of  Lytton 
and  Viscount  Knebworth,  1880.  Scholar,  diplo- 
matist, magistrate,  courtier,  and  man  of  letters, 
he  touched  life  at  many  points.  "  Clytemnestra, 
the  Earl's  Return,  and  Other  Poems  "  appeared 
in  1859  under  the  pseudonym  of  "Owen  Mere- 
dith," followed  by  "The  Wanderer,  A  Collec- 
tion of  Poems  in  Many  Lands,"  1858  ;  "  Lucile, 
a  Poem,"  1860;  "Fables  in  Song,"  1874; 
"Speeches  of  Edward,  Lord  Lytton,  with  a 
Memoir,"  1874;  and  "  Glenaveril,  or  the  Meta- 
morphoses," 1885.  Among  his  later  poetical 
worKs,  "Orval,  or  the  Fool  of  Time,"  1869, 
reflects  the  Polish  mystical  school.  "  King 
Poppy,"  1892,  is  a  brilliant  satire. 

McCRAE,  George  Gordon,  government  ser- 
vice, b.  Scotland.  Holds  an  appointment  in  the 
civil  service  in  Victoria.  Contributes  to  the 
Australian  periodicals  but  has  never  published 
his  collected  poems.  Has  embodied  many  of 
the  legends  of  the  aborigines  in  verse,  of  which 
"  Mamba,  the  Bright-eyed  "  and  "  The  Story 
of  Balladeadro,"  both  published  in  1867,  are 
the  best  known. 

McGEE,  Thomas  D'Arcy,  journalist,  b. 
Carlingfdrd,  Ireland,  Ib25  ;  killed  at  Ottawa, 
Canada,  1868.  Emigrated  to  America,  1842, 
and  became  editor  of  the  Boston  "  Pilot."  Re- 
turned to  Ireland  in  lt-45  to  edit  the  "  Free- 
man's Journal,"  but  soon  became  connected 
with  "  The  Nation."  During  the  riots  in  1848, 
he  was  obliged  to  flee  to  America,  and  here  for 
nine  years  published  "  The  New  York  Nation." 
In  1857  moved  to  Montreal,  and  soon  entered 
the  Canadian  Parliament.  While  going  home 
from  a  night  session,  he  was  assassinated  for 
his  opposition  to  the  Fenians. 

MA  CAUL  AY,  Thomas  Babington,  Lord, 
historian,  b.  in  Rothley  Temple,  Leicestershire,, 
1800  ;  d.  Kensington,  1859.  Displayed  remark- 
able precocity,  reading  incessantly  from  the  age 
of  three,  and  possessed  unique  powers  of  mem- 
ory throughout  life.  He  was  generous  and  de- 
voted to  his  sisters,  and  died  unmarried.  Was 
noted  in  Parliament,  and  spent  three  years  and 
a  half  in  India  as  a  member  of  the  supreme 
council.  "  The  History  of  England  "  was  his 
greatest  literary  achievement,  although  he  was 
the  author  of  many  brilliant  essays,  published 
mostly  in  the  "Edinburgh  Review,"  and  then 
collected  into  volumes.  His  poetry  consists  of 
the  "Lays  of  Ancient  Rome"  and  other  bal- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


697 


lads.  He  became  a  peer  in  1857.  He  was  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  9  Jan.,  1860.  His  grave 
is  in  the  Poets'  Corner,  at  the  foot  of  Addison's 

statue. 

MaoCARTHY,  Denis  Florence,  b.  Dub- 
lin, 1817  ;  d.  1882.  Educated  at  Trinity  College  ; 
called  to  the  Bar,  but  devoted  himself  mainly 
to  literature.  Contributed  to  "The  Nation." 
Professor  of  Poetry  in  the  Irish  Catholic  Uni- 
versity. Translated  several  of  Calderon's 
dramas  into  English  verse.  A  collective  edition 
of  his  own  poems  appeared  in  1884. 

MACDONALD,  Frederika  Richardson. 
Author  of  "  Nathaniel  Vaughan,  Priest  and 
Man,"  1874;  "Puck  and  Pearl;  Wanderings 
of  two  English  Children  in  India,"  1886. 

MACDONALD,  George,  novelist,  b.  Hunt- 
ley,  Aberdeenshire,  1824.  Took  his  degree 
from  King's  College,  Aberdeen.  Studied  for 
the  ministry,  and  was  first  pastor  of  an  Inde- 
pendent church  at  Arundel,  for  a  short  time. 
Joined  the  Church  of  England  and  settled  in 
London,  devoting  himself  to  literature. 
"  Within  and  Without,"  a  dramatic  poem,  was 
published  in  1856;  "A  Hidden  Life,"  1857; 
and  "  The  Disciples  and  Other  Poems,"  1867. 
Author  of  many  novels. 

MACKAIL,  John  "William,  author  of 
"  Thermopylae  :  Newdigate  Verse,"  1881;  and 
"Virgil's  -<Eneid  in  English  Prose,"  ISS.").  As 
a  poet,  associated  with  Rev.  H.  C.  Beeching 
and  Mr.  J.  B.  B.  Nichols  in  the  production  of 
"  Love  in  Idleness,"  1883,  and  "Love's  Looking- 
glass,"  1891. 

MACKAY,  Charles,  journalist  and  song 
writer,  b.  Perth,  1814 ;  d.  1889.  Issued  his  first 
volume  of  poems  in  1834.  Became  sub-editor  of 
the  "Morning  Chronicle,"  and  while  holding 
this  position  published  "  The  Hope  of  the 
World."  Afterwards  editor  of  the  "  Glasgow 
Argus,"  and  "  The  Illustrated  London  News," 
and  founder  of  the  "London  Review."  Made 
a  lecturing  tour  in  the  United  States,  1857-58, 
and  during  the  Civil  War  resided  in  New  York 
as  correspondent  of  the  "  Times."  A  prolific 
writer  of  both  prose  and  verse. 

MACKAY,  Eric,  b.  London,  1851.  Son  of 
the  late  Dr.  Charles  Mackay.  Educated  in 
Scotland,  and  afterwards  passed  a  number  of 
years  in  Italy.  Has  published  "  Love  Letters 
of  a  Violinist/'  1885  ;  followed  by  "  Gladys  the 
Singer,"  and  "A  Lover's  Litanies.  His 
"Nero  and  Actaea,"  a  dramatic  work,  ap- 
peared in  1891.  Died  in  London,  1898. 

MAGINN,  "William,  b.  Cork,  1793 ;  d.  Wal- 
ton-on-Thames,  1842.  Attended  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin,  when  but  ten  years  of  age,  and 
received  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  at  the  age  of 
twenty-three.  Joined  the  staff  of  "  Black- 
wood's  "  in  1820,  and  afterwards  was  connected 
with  "  Eraser's. "  His  irregular  habits  stood  in 
the  way  of  a  success  proportionate  to  his  genius. 
Author  of  a  series  of  Homeric  Ballads. 

MAHONY,  Francis   Sylvester  ("Father 


Prout "),  priest  and  humorist,  b.  Cork,  1805 ; 
d.  Paris,  1866.  Was  ordained  as  a,  priest,  but 
in  1837  adopted  the  profession  of  literature. 
Contributed  to  "  Eraser's  "  and  other  periodi- 
cals, and  collected  his  magazine  articles  in  a  vol- 
ume entitled  "  The  Reliques  of  Father  Prout." 
A  brilliant  author,  witty  and  sarcastic. 

MAIR,  Cbarles,  K1840,  Province  of  Ontario. 
Educated  at  Queen's  University.  Kingston. 
His  letters  to  Canadian  journals  from  the  North- 
west Territory  gave  the  first  impetus  to  immi- 
gration to  that  region.  He  took  an  active  part 
in  putting  down  the  insurrections  led  by  Louis 
Riel.  Engaged  in  the  fur-trade  for  a  time,  but 
is  now  occupied  solely  with  literary  work. 
"  Dreamland  and  other  Poems  "  was  issued  in 
1868,  and  "  Tecumseh,"  a  drama,  in  1886. 

MANGAW,  James  Clarence,  b.  Dublin, 
1803 ;  d.  1849.  Received  a  common  school 
education,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen  entered  a 
solicitor's  office.  Here  he  remained  for  several 
years,  the  sole  support  of  the  family,  working 
early  and  late.  In  1830,  began  contributing  re- 
markable translations  to  Dublin  periodicals  and 
obtained  a  position  in  Trinity  College  Library. 
Continued  his  translations  and  wrote  some  odes 
for  "  The  Nation."  Dissipation  enfeebled  his 
constitution,  and  he  succumbed  to  an  attack  of 
cholera. 

MA-RSTON,  John  Westland,  dramatist,  b. 
Eoston,  Lincolnshire,  1819;  d.  1890.  Studied 
law,  but  relinquished  it  for  literature.  His  first 
play,  "  The  Patrician's  Daughter,"  was  written 
when  he  was  twenty-two  years  of  age.  "Strath- 
more  "  appeared  in  1849,  and  was  followed  by 
several  other  dramas.  In  1888,  published  "  Rec- 
ollections of  our  Recent  Actors."  For  many 
years  led  the  life  of  a  London  editor,  contribu- 
tor, and  man  of  letters. 

MARSTON,  Philip  Bourke,  b.  London, 
1850  ;  d.  London,  1887.  Only  son  of  Dr.  West- 
land  Marston,  and  godson  of  Dinah  Maria  Mu- 
lock  (Mrs.  Craik).  It  was  to  him  she  addressed 
her  poem  "Philip,  My  King."  Notwithstand- 
ing his  blindness,  caused  by  an  injury  to  his 
eyes  when  he  was  a  young  child,  he  began  to 
dictate  verses  from  his  early  youth.  The  loss 
through  death  of  his  betrothed  (Miss  Nesbit), 
his  two  sisters,  his  brother  -  in  -  law,  Arthur 
O'Shaughnessy,  and  his  friend,  Oliver  Madox 
Brown,  all  occurred  within  the  space  of  a  few 
years.  Rossetti  encouraged  his  genius,  and  said 
of  some  of  his  verse  that  it  was  "worthy  of 
Shakespeare  in  his  subtlest  lyrical  moods." 
"  Song-Tide  and  Other  Poems  "  was  issued  in 
1871,  and  was  followed  by  "  All  in  All "  in  187.">, 
and  "  Wind  Voices,"  1883.  A  collection  of  all 
his  poems  was  edited  with  a  memoir  by  his  de- 
voted friend,  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  in 
1892. 

MARTIN,  Arthur  Patchett,  journalist,  b. 
Woolwich.  England,  1R51,  and  taken  to  Aus- 
tralia in  1852.  Educated  at  Melbourne  Univer- 
sity. Held  an  appointment  in  the  civil  service 
for  a  time.  Was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


"  Melbourne  Review,"  and  its  editor  for  six 
years.  Author  of  "  A  Sweet  Girl  Graduate  " 
and  "An  Easter  Omelette,"  1878;  "Fern- 
sliawe,"  a  volume  of  prose  and  verse,  published 
in  Australia  in  1881,  and  republished  in  London, 
1K85;  and  "The  Withered  Jester,  and  other 
Verses,"  1895. 

MARTLNEAU,  Harriet,  b.  Norwich,  1802  • 
d.  1876.  An  advocate  of  free  thought  and 
social  reform,  and  a  voluminous  writer  on  politi- 
cal economy,  history,  and  biography.  Con- 
tributed to  the  "  Monthly  Repository  "  and  the 
"  Daily  News." 

MARZIALS,  Prank  T.,  b.  Lille,  France, 
1840.  At  an  early  age  entered  the  English  war 
office,  where  he  still  remains.  Has  written 
various  biographies.  Edited  the  Academy  se- 
ries of  "  Great  Writers,"  and  has  contributed 
articles  on  art  and  French  literature  to  lead- 
ing periodicals.  His  poetical  writings  are  in- 
cluded in  "  Death's  Disguises,"  1889. 

MARZIALS,  The'ophile  Julius  Henry, 
musician  and  composer,  b.  1850.  Of  French 
descent.  "  The  Passionate  Dowsabella,"  a  pas- 
toral poem,  was  first  printed  privately  in  1872. 
It  was  included  in  "A  Gallery  of  Pigeons  and 
Other  Poems,"  published  in  1873.  Has  com- 
posed many  artistic  and  captivating  songs. 

MASSEY,  Gerald,  b.  Tring,  Hertfordshire, 
1828.  Began  to  work  in  a  silk  factory  when 
a  mere  lad.  Edited  "  The  Spirit  of  Freedom  " 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  in  the  following 
year  became  one  of  the  secretaries  of  the 

Christian  Socialists."  Brought  out  his  first 
volume  of  poems  in  1850.  Has  lectured  upon 
psychological  subjects,  and  of  late  years  has 
.'been  engaged  in  forming  societies  to  promote 
spiritualism  and  socialism.  ' '  My  Lyrical  Lif e, " 
published  in  1890,  contains  selections  from  his 
four  previously  published  works. 

MEREDITH,  George,  novelist,  b.  Hamp- 
shire, about  1828.  Studied  in  Germany  and 
•was  prepared  for  the  law,  but  took  up  litera- 
ture instead.  He  published  "  Poems  "  in  1851 ; 
"  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,"  1856  ;  "  The  Ordeal 
of  Richard  Feverel,"  1859 ;  "  Evan  Harring- 
ton,'" 1861;  "  Modern  Love,"  a  volume  of  poems, 
1862:  "Emilia  in  England,"  1864;  "Rhoda 
Flemiag,"  1865  ;  "  Vittoria,"  1867  ;  "  The  Ad- 
ventures of  Harry  Richmond,"  1871;  "Beau- 
champ's  Career,"  1876  ;  "  The  Egoist,"  1879  ; 
"The  Tragic  Comedians,"  1881 ;  "  Poems  and 
Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth,"  1883  ;  "  Diana  of 
the  Crossways,"  1885  ;  "  Ballads  and  Poems  of 
a  Tragic  Life,"  1887  ;  "  A  Reading  of  Earth," 
1888  ;  "  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta,"  1894. 

"MEREDITH,  Owen."  — See  Robert,  Earl 
of  Lytton. 

MERIVAIjE,  Herman  Charles,  dramatist 
and  novelist,  b.  London,  1839.  Educated  at 
Harrow  and  Oxford.  Called  to  the  Bar  in  1864, 
at  the  Inner  Temple.  Edited  "  Annual  Regis- 
ter" for  ten  years.  Author  of  several  success- 
ful plays.  "The  White  Pilgrim  and  Other 


Poems"  was  published  in  1883;  "Florien  and 
Other  Poems,"  1884. 

MEYNELL,  Alice  (Thompson),  b.  Lon- 
don. Educated  at  home,  and  spent  much  of 
her  childhood  in  Italy.  In  1875  brought  out  a 
volume  of  poems,  "Preludes,"  which  was  illus- 
trated by  her  sister,  Lady  Butler.  Married 
Mr.  Wilfred  Meynell,  editor  of  "Merry  Eng- 
land," in  1877.  Since  then  has  written  chieHy 
prose,  and  published  a  book  of  essays,  "  The 
Rhythm  of  Life,"  in  1893;  "The  Color  of 
Life,"  1896;  "The  Children,"  1896;  "  The 
Flower  of  the  Mind,  an  Anthology,"  1898. 

MILLER.  Thomas,  novelist,  b.  Gainsbor- 
ough, 1807  ;  d.  London,  1874.  While  employed 
as  a  basket-maker,  published  his  first  book  of 
verse,  "  Songs  of  the  Sea  Nymphs,"  1832.  "  A 
Day  in  the  Woods  "  (verse)  appeared  in  1836. 
Contributed  to  the  annuals  and  the  "London 
Journal,"  and  wrote  a  number  of  books  for 
children. 

MILLER,William,  b.  Bridgegate,  Glasgow, 
Scotland,  1810;  d.  1872.  Followed  the  trade 
of  wood  -  turner  at  Glasgow.  Contributed  to 
"Whistle  Binkie,"  and  published  "Scottish 
Nursery  Songs  and  Other  ^Poems,"  1863.  The 
charm  of  his  poems  of  children  made  them  so 
popular  that  he  has  been  called  by  Robert 
Buchanan  the  "  Laureate  of  the  Nursery." 

MILMAN,  Henry  Hart,  divine,  b.  London, 
1791 ;  d.  Sunninghill,  1868.  Educated  at  Ox- 
ford ;  ordained  in  1816,  and  became  a  curate  at 
Reading.  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  for 
ten  years ;  rector  of  St.  Margaret's,  Westmin- 
ster, 1835,  and  dean  of  St.  Paul's,  1849.  Author 
of  several  poetical  and  historical  works,  the 
most  important  of  the  latter  being  "  The  His- 
tory of  Latin  Christianity,"  1854-55. 

MILNES,  Richard  Monckton.  As  the 
bearer  of  this  name  the  author  of  "  The  Brook- 
Side,"  before  his  elevation  to  the  peerage, 
achieved  his  reputation  as  a  writer  of  verse 
and  prose,  and  performed- most  of  his  literary 
work.  See  Lard  Houghton. 

MITPORD,  John,  clergyman  and  editor,  b. 
1781 ;  d.  1859.  In  1S14  edited  Gray's  works, 
and  in  1851,  those  of  Milton.  Also  edited  Par- 
Hell's  works  for  the  "  Aldine  Poets."  A  collec- 
tion of  his  own  verse,  entitled  "  Miscellaneous 
Poems,"  appeared  in  1858. 

MOIR,  David  Macbeth,  physician,  b.  Mus- 
selburgh,  1798 ;  d.  Dumfries,  1851.  Granted 
a  surgeon's  diploma  from  University  of  Edin- 
burgh, 1816.  Contributed  to  "  Blackwood's  :  " 
published  "Legends  of  Genevieve,  with  Other 
Tales  and  Poems,"  1824.  Author  of  several 
prose  works.  After  his  death  a  collection  of 
his  poems  was  published,  edited  by  Thomas 
Aird. 

MONKHOTTSE,  Cosmo,  art  critic,  b.  Lon- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


699 


don,  1840.  Educated  at  St.  Paul's  School.  At 
the  age  of  seventeen  he  secured  a  position  in 
the  Board  of  Trade,  where  he  still  remains,  and 
is  now  assistant  secretary  for  finance.  In  18(55 
published  "  A  Dream  of  Idleness  and  other 
Poems,"  and  twenty-five  years  later,  "Corn 
and  Poppies,"  the  volume  containing  his  best 
lyrical  work.  Has  written  the  life  of  Turner 
in  the  ' '  Great  Artists ' '  series,  and  the  life  of 
Leigh  Hunt  in  the  '*  Great  Writers"  series.  Is 
well  known  as  an  authoritative  writer  on  art 
and  letters. 

MONSELL,  John  Samuel  Bewley,  clergy- 
man, b.  St.  Columb's,  Londonderry,  Ireland, 
1811 ;  d.  Guildford,  Surrey,  1875.  Was  gradu- 
ated fromTrinity  College,  Dublin,  1832.  Rec- 
tor of  Ramoan,  chancellor  of  Connor,  and 
rector  of  St.  Nicholas',  Guildford,  Surrey. 
His  poems  are  nearly  all  of  a  religious  nature. 
Many  of  them  appeared  in  "  Hymns  of  Love 
and  Praise  for  the  Church's  Year,"  1863. 

MONTGOMERY,  Eleanor  Elizabeth,  b. 
New  Zealand,  and  lives  there  on  a  cattle  ranch. 
Employs  the  pseudonym  of  "  The  Singing 
Shepherd."  Author  of  "  Songs  of  the  Singing 
Shepherd,"  issued  in  Wauganui,  New  Zealand, 
1885. 

MONTGOMERY,  James,  journalist,  b. 
Ayrshire,  Scotland,  1771 ;  d.  1854.  Spent  most 
of  his  life  in  Sheffield,  where  he  edited  a  liberal 
newspaper.  In  addition  to  devotional  poems  he 
wrote  "  The  Wanderer  in  Switzerland  ;  "  "  The 
West  Indies,"  a  poem  against  the  slave  trade  ; 
"The  World  before  the  Flood;"  "Green- 
land ;  "  and  "  The  Pelican  Island." 

MOODIE.  Susanna  Strickland,  b.  Rey- 
don  Hall,  Suffolk,  England,  1803 ;  d.  Toronto, 
Canada,  1885.  Sister  of  Agnes  Strickland. 
Married  John  Wedderburn  Dunbar  Moodie, 
ex-naval  officer,  and  traveller  and  author  of 
several  books  on  Holland,  South  Africa,  and 
settlers'  life  in  Canada.  She  came  to  Canada 
with  Mr.  Moodie,  and  resided  for  many  years 
'  in  Toronto.  Author  of  "  Enthusiasm  and  Other 
Poems,"  1829;  "Roughing  it  in  the  Bush,  or 
Life  in  Canada,"  1852  ;  "  Life  in  the  Clearings 
versus  the  Bush,"  1853.  Also  wrote  several 
novels. 

MORRIS,  Sir  Lewis,  b.  in  Caermarthen, 
1833.  Educated  at  Sherborne  School  and  Jesus 
College,  Oxford,  where  he  was  awarded  the 
Chancellor's  prize  in  1855,  and  the  English  Essay 
prize  in  1858.  Called  to  the  Bar  in  1861,  and 
practised  for  many  years.  In  1881  he  stood  in 
the  Liberal  interest  for  the  Caermarthen  Bor- 
oughs, but  retired  before  election.  Contested 
the  Pembroke  Boroughs  in  1886,  but  was  de- 
feated. Is  an  Honorary  Fellow  of  Jesus  Col- 
lege, a  Knight  of  the  Order  of  the  Saviour 
(Greece),  and  a  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  his 
native  county.  In  1890  his  collected  poetical 
"  Works  "  appeared  in  one  volume.  This  in- 
cluded the  three  series  of  "Songs  of  Two 
Worlds,"  "  Epic  of  Hades,"  "  Gwen,"  "  Ode 
of  Life,"  "Songs  Unsung,"  "  Gycia,"  and 


"Songs  of  Britain."  "A  Vision  of  Saints" 
also  appeared  in  1890.  He  was  knighted  by 
the  Queen  in  1895. 

MORRIS,  'William,  decorative  artist,  b. 
Walthamstow,  1834.  Educated  at  Marlborough 
and  Exeter  College,  Oxford,  and  studied  archi- 
tecture under  George  Edmund  Street.  Estab- 
lished "  The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Magazine." 
Made  a  special  study  of  artistic  design  and 
founded  the  firm  of  Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner 
&  Co.,  which  is  now  conducted  under  his  name 
alone,  and  which  produces  materials  used  in  fine 
art  decoration.  More  recently  has  established 
the  Kelmscott  Press,  from  which  costly  reprints, 
in  the  highest  style  of  Caxtpn's  art,  are  issued. 
Among  his  many  publications  are  "The  De- 
fence of  Guenevere  and  Other  Poems,"  1858; 
"  The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason,"  1867 ;  "  The 
Earthly  Paradise,"  1868-70 ;  "  Love  is  enough," 
1873  ;  "A  Tale  of  the  House  of  the  Wolfings," 
1889.  In  collaboration  with  Eirfkr  Magmisson 
he  has  begun  a  translation  of  the  Icelandic 
Sagas,  the  first  volume  of  which  was  published 
in  1891.  Of  late  years  he  has  been  an  ardent 
advocate  of  social  reform,  often  lecturing  to  the 
working  classes.  In  poetry  Chaucer  was  his 
master,  but  he  is  unrivalled  in  the  strength, 
learning,  and  felicity  with  which  he  has  re- 
produced the  Germanic  and  Norse  legendaries 
in  his  affluent  English  verse.  In  art,  beginning 
with  Pre-Raphaelite  affiliations,  he  has  practi- 
cally applied  the  secrets  of  beauty  throughout 
the  range  of  decorative  construction.  Cp.  "  Vic- 
torian Poets,"  ch.  x.  D.  London,  1896.  [E.  C.  8.] 

MUTiHOLLAND,  Rosa,  novelist,  b.  Bel- 
fast. Has  contributed  to  the  "  Cornhill''  and 
"All  the  Year  Round,"  and  has  written  a 
number  of  novels  and  tales.  Published  a  vol- 
ume of  poems  in  1886.  Now  Lady  Gilbert. 

MULOCK,  Dinah  Maria.— See D.M.  Craik. 

MTJNBY,  Arthur  Joseph,  barrister,  b.  in 
the  Wapentake  of  Buhner,  Yorkshire,  1828. 
His  London  quarters  are  in  the  Temple,  and 
he  resorts  for  a  country  life  to  his  farm  in 
Surrey.  A  truly  pastoral  lyrist  and  idyllist, 
delighting  in  the  simple  lives  of  the  English 
peasantry  and  farm  and  house  servants,  which 
he  realistically  depicts.  His  "Dorothy,"  writ- 
ten in  elegiac  verse,  became  a  favorite  in  Eng- 
land and  America,  1880.  He  had  previously 
published  "Verses  New  and  Old,"  1865.  Au- 
thor, also,  of  "Vestigia  Retrorsum,"  1891; 
"  Vulgar  Verses,"  mostly  dialect  poems  (under 
the  pseudonym  of  "Jones  Brown"),  1891; 
"Susan,"  1893.  [E.  c.  s.] 

MURRAY,  George,  educator,  b.  London, 
England.  Was  graduated  with  honors  at  Ox- 
ford. Went  to  Montreal  and  was  made  classi- 
cal master  of  the  High  School.  He  has  made  a 
number  of  metrical  translations  from  the 
French.  Author  of  "Verses  and  Versions," 
1891. 

MYERS,  Ernest,  classicist,  b.  Keswick, 
1844.  Educated  at  Cheltenham  College  and  at 
Balliol  College,  Oxford.  Was  a  Fellow  of 


7oo 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


Wadham  College  and  classical  lecturer  there 
and  at  .Balliol.  Younger  brother  of  Frederic 
W.  H.  Myers.  Author  of  "The  Puritans," 
1869  ;  "  Poems,"  1S70  ;  "  The  Defence  of  Rome 
and  Other  Poems,"  1880;  "The  Judgment  of 
Prometheus  and  Other  Poems,"  1886.  He  col- 
laborated with  Andrew  Lang  and  W.  Leaf  in 
the  "Translation  of  the  Iliad,"  published  in 
1883. 

MYERS,  Frederic  William  Henry,  inves- 
.iigator,  b.  Keswick,  1843.  Son  of  Rev.  Fred- 
eric Myers,  author  of  "  Catholic  Thoughts." 
Educated  at  Cheltenham  College  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  Inspector  of  Schools  for 
a  number  of  years,  and  assisted  in  establishing 
the  "Psychical  Research  Society."  "St. 
Paul"  appeared  in  1865;  "Poems,"  1870; 
"The  Renewal  of  Youth,"  1882.  Is  also  a 
prose-writer,  and  was  part  author  of  "  Phan- 
tasms of  the  Living,"  1886. 

NADEN,  Constance  Caroline  Woodhill, 
b.  Edgbaston,  1858  ;  d.  London,  1889.  Author 
of  "Songs  and  Sonnets  of  Springtime,'1  1881, 
and  "  The  Modern  Apostle  and  Other  Poems," 
1887. 

NEWMA.N,  John  Henry,  Cardinal,  theo- 
logian, b.  London,  1801 ;  d.  Birmingham,  1890. 
Was  graduated  with  honor  from  Trinity  Col- 
lege, 1820.  Fellow  o'f  Oriel  College,  and  after- 
wards tutor  at  the  same.  Vice-principal  of  St. 
Alban's  under  Dr.  Whately ;  incumbent  of 
St.  Mary's,  Oxford.  One  of  the  leaders  of  the 
Tractarian  movement.  Left  the  Church  of 
England  and  joined  the  Church  of  Rome  in 
1845.  Was  created  a  Cardinal  Deacon  by  the 
Pope  in  1879.  Published  two  volumes  of  verse, 
and  contributed  to  the  "  Lyra  Apostolica." 
An  eminent  master  of  English  prose,  and  the 
author  of  several  theological  and  historical 
works. 

NICHOL,  John,  scholar,  b.  Montrose,  1833 ; 
d.  1894.  Son  of  John  Pringle  Nichol,  the  as- 
tronomer. Took  his  degree,  with  honor,  from 
Balliol  College,  Oxford,  1859.  Became  Profes- 
sor of  English  Literature  in  Glasgow  Univer- 
sity ;  received  the  degree  of  LL.  D.  from  the 
University  of  St.  Andrews,  1873.  Besides  crit- 
ical and  other  works,  he  published  "  Hannibal : 
an  Historical  Drama,"  1873;  and  "The  Death 
of  Themistocles,  and  Other  Poems,"  1881. 

NICHOLS,  J.  B.  B.  Associated  with  Rev. 
H.  C.  Beeching  and  J.  W.  Mackail  in  the  au- 
thorship of  "Love  in  Idleness,"  1883,  and 
"Love  s  Looking-glass,"  1891. 

NICOLL,  Robert,  b.  Auchtergaven  in 
Perthshire,  1814 ;  d.  1837.  While  engaged  in 
humble  employments  he  trained  himself  for  a 
literary  career.  Became  editor  of  the  "  Leeds 
Times,"  a  Liberal  weekly.  Published  "  Poems 
and  Lyrics  "  in  1835. 

NOEL,  Hon.  Roden  Berkeley  Wriothes- 
ley  b.  1834 ;  d.  Maintz,  1894.  Son  of  the  Earl 
of  Gainsborough  (second  creation).  His  child- 
hood was  passed  at  Exton  Park,  Rutlandshire. 


Much  of  his  descriptive  poetry  was  the  result 
of  his  visit  to  his  grandfather  Lord  Roden's 
beautiful  place  in  Ireland.  Took  his  degree 
from  Cambridge,  and  travelled  extensively  in 
the  East.  Author  of  "  Beatrice  and  Other 
Poems,"  1868;  "The  Red  Flag,"  1872;  "A 
Little  Child's  Monument,"  1881;  and  "A 
Modern  Faust,"  1888.  In  prose  is  known  as  a 
critic,  biographer,  and  philosopher. 

NOKTON,  Caroline  Elizabeth  SaraL 
(Sheridan),  afterwards  Lady  Stirling-Max- 
well, b.  1808 ;  d.  1877.  Daughter  of  Thomas 
Sheridan,  and  granddaughter  of  Richard  Brins- 
ley  Sheridan.  In  1827  she  married  Mr.  George 
Norton,  but  the  union  was  an  unhappy  one. 
She  wrote  several  successful  novels.  Of  her 
poetry,  "  The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie  "  appeared  in 
1829;  "The  Undying  One,"  in  1831;  "The 
Child  of  the  Island,"  in  1845,  and  "  The  Lady 
of  la  Garaye,"  in  1863.  She  married  Sir  Wil- 
liam Sterling-Maxwell  three  months  before  her 
death. 

O'LEARY,  Ellen,  b.  Tipperary,  1831  ;  d. 
Dublin,  1889.  Contributed  to  various  Irish 
publications,  and  with  her  brother  John 
O'Leary  was  active  in  the  Fenian  movement  of 
1864.  After  1885  she  made  her  home  in  Dub- 
lin. A  collected  edition  of  her  poems  was  pub- 
lished, with  a  memoir,  in  1890. 

O'SHATTGHNESSY,  Arthur  -William  Ed- 
f?ar,  b.  London,  1844  (as  given  in  his  own  MS. ) ; 
d.  London,  1881.  Connected  with  the  British 
Museum,  first  holding  a  subordinate  position  in 
the  Library,  and  afterwards  being  transferred 
to  the  Department  of  Natural  History.  Mar- 
ried Eleanor,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Westland 
Marston  and  sister  of  the  blind  poet,  Philip 
Bourke  Marston.  "  An  Epic  of  Women  "  ap- 
peared in  1870;  "Lays  of  France'"  in  1872; 
and  "Music  and  Moonlight"  in  1874.  His 
posthumous  poems,  "Songs  of  a  Worker," 
were  published  in  1831.  A  selection  from  his 
poems,  edited  by  his  friend,  Mrs.  Moulton,  ap- 
peared in  1894. 

PALQRAVE,  Francis  Turner,  critic,  b 
1824.  Son  of  Sir  Francis  Palgrave,  historian 
Took  his  degree  from  Balliol  College  in  1847 
and  was  elected  Fellow  of  Exeter  College 
From  1850  to  1855  was  vice-principal  (under  Dr 
Temple,  subsequently  bishop  of  London)  of 
the  Training  College  at  Kneller  Hall.  Became 
one  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Committee  of 
Council  on  Education;  and  afterwards  profes- 
sor of  Poetry  at  Oxford.  In  1878,  was  created 
an  honorary  LL.  D.  of  Edinburgh.  Editor  of 
admirable  collections  of  poetry,  and  author  of 
"Lyrical  Dreams,"  1871,  and  "The  Vision  of 
England,"  1881.  Died  in  London,  1897. 

PARKER,  Gilbert,  b.  Canada,  1862.  Edu- 
cated at  the  University  of  Trinity  College, 
Toronto,  and  was  afterwards  a  lecturer  there 
in  English  literature.  Studied  for  the  Church, 
but  owing  to  a  severe  illness  went  to  the  South 
Seas,  where  he  joined  the  staff  of  the  "Syd- 
ney Morning  Herald,"  and  was  special  oommis- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


701 


sioner  for  that  paper  in  the  South  Seas.  Has 
published  "Pierre  and  His  People,"  1892; 
f'Mrs.  Falchion,"  1893;  "The  Translation  of 
a  Savage,"  1894;  "A  Lover's  Diary,"  1894; 
"  The  Trail  of  the  Sword,"  1895.  Well  known 
in  the  United  States  by  his  novels,  and  a  prom- 
inent contributor  to  American  magazines. 

PARNELL,  Prances  Isabel  (Fanny),  b. 
1854  ;  d.  1882.  Sister  of  Charles  Stewart  Par- 
nell  and  granddaughter  of  Charles  Stewart,  the 
historic  commander  of  the  U.  S.  frigate  "Con- 
stitution." Her  poems  have  never  been  col- 
lected. 

PATMORE,  Coventry  Kearsey  Deighton, 
b.  Woodford,  1823.  In  1844  brought  out  his 
first  volume  of  poems ;  in  1847,  became  assist- 
ant librarian  in  the  British  Museum.  Pub- 
lished "The  Angel  in  the  House,"  "The  Be- 
trothal," 1854,  and  "  The  Espousals,"  1856. 
After  his  wife's  death  he  retired  from  the  Mu- 
seum and  has  since  lived  at  Hastings.  "  The 
Unknown  Eros  "  appeared  in  1877  ;  "  Amelia," 
and  a  collected  edition  of  his  poems,  in  1878. 
Edited  "  The  Children's  Garland "  in  the 
Golden  Treasury  Series.  D.  Lymington,  1896. 

PATON,  Sir  Joseph  Noel, 'painter,  b.  Dun- 
fermline,  1821.  Studied  at  the  Royal  Academy, 
London.  Twice  succeeded  in  securing  the  prize 
at  the  Westminster  Hall  competitions ;  ap- 
pointed Queen's  Limner  for  Scotland.  1865 ; 
knighted  in  1867,  and  made  LL.  D.  of  Edin- 
burgh University  in  1876.  "  Poems  by  a 
Painter"  appeared  in  1861,  and  "Spindrift" 
in  1867. 

PAYNE,  John,  solicitor,  b.  1842.  Published 
"  A  Masque  of  Shadows,"  1870;  "Intaglios," 
1871;  "Songs  of  Life  and  Death,"  1872; 
"Lautrec,"  1878;  and  "New  Poems,  1880." 
Translated,  for  the  Villon  Society,  Villon's 
Poems,  the  "  Thousand  Nights  and  One  Night," 
and  "  The  Decameron."  Is  a  most  learned 
scholar,  and  a  master  of  English  prose,  to  which 
a  skilful  archaic  quality  lends  artistic  effect. 

PEACOCK,  Thomas  Love,  novelist,  b. 
Weymouth,  1785;  d.  Lower  Halliford,  1866. 
One  of  the  best  classical  scholars  of  his  time, 
though  self-educated.  Became  the  intimate 
friend  of  Shelley,  and  was  his  executor.  Was 
connected  with  the  India  House  as  chief  ex- 
aminer from  1819  to  1856.  Wrote  several  novels, 
of  which  "Headlong  Hall."  published  in  1815, 
was  the  first.  "  Rhododaphne,"  a  long  poem, 
appeared  in  1818;  "Nightmare  Abbey,"  in 
1818;  "Maid  Marian,"  in  1822;  "  Gryll 
Grange,"  in  1860. 

PFEIFFER,  Emily  (Davis),  b.  Wales, 
1841  ;  d.  1890.  Daughter  of  Mr.  R.  Davis  of 
Oxfordshire,  an  officer  in  the  army.  Lack  of 
means  prevented  her  receiving  a  systematic 
education.  After  a  tour  abroad  she  married 
Mr.  Pfeiffer,  a  rich  German  merchant  who  set- 
tled in  London.  Though  suffering  for  years 
from  ill-health,  she  wrote,  chivalrously  encour- 
aged by  her  husband,  many  volumes  of  poetry, 


and  contributed  articles  on  "  Woman's  Work  " 
to  the  "  Contemporary  Review." 

POLLOCK,  Sir  Frederick,  3d  Bart.,  bar- 
rister, b.  1845.  Eldest  son  of  Sir  William  Fred- 
erick Pollock,  Bart.  Fellow  of  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  1868.  Made  Corpus  Prof.  Jur.,  Ox- 
ford, 1883,  and  Prof,  of  Common  Law,  Inns  of 
Court,  1884.  Also  editor  of  the  "  Law  Quar- 
terly Review"  and  author  of  various  legal 
works.  Has  written  a  book  on  Spinoza,  and  in 
verse,  the  witty  ' '  Leading  Cases  Done  into 
English,"  1876,  from  which  "  The  Six  Carpen- 
ters' Case,"  given  in  this  Anthology,  is  taken. 

POLLOCK,  "Walter  Herries,  editor,  b. 
London,  1850.  Brother  of  the  preceding. 
Graduated  from  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
1871.  Called  to  the  bar  at  the  Inner  Temple, 
1874.  Has  lectured  at  the  Royal  Institution, 
London,  and  other  places.  Long  the  editor  of 
the  "  Saturday  Review."  In  addition  to  a  vol- 
ume of  lectures  and  a  novel,  he  has  published 
"  Verses  of  Two  Tongues,"  "  The  Poet  and  the 
Muse,"  translated  from  A.  de  Musset,  and 
"  Songs  and  Rhymes,"  1882. 

PRA.ED,  Winthrop  Mackworth,  parlia- 
mentarian, b.  London,  1802  :  d.  1839.  Entered 
Eton  in  1814,  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
1821.  While  at  Eton,  he  published  the  "Eto- 
nian," and  at  both  institutions  was  noted  for  his 
brilliant  scholarship.  The  elegant  and  gifted 
pioneer  of  modern  society-verse.  Contributed 
to  the  "Quarterly  Magazine."  Entered  Par- 
liament in  1830.  An  edition  of  his  poems  was 
brought  out  by  Rev.  Derwent  Coleridge,  1864. 

PROBYN",  May.  Author  of  "  Poems."  1881 ; 
"A  Ballad  of  the  Road  and  Other  Poems," 
1883  ;  and  works  of  fiction.  Her  verse  was  well 
received  by  the  public.  It  is  understood  that, 
having  entered  an  order  of  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic Church,  for  a  time  she  ceased  to  write,  but 
a  new  volume  of  her  poetry  has  been  announced. 

PROCTER,  Adelaide  Anne,  b.  London, 
1825;  d.  1864.  Daughter  of  Bryan  Waller 
Procter,  "  Barry  Cornwall."  Her  verses  were 
first  published  over  the  signature  of  "  Mary  Ber- 
wick," and  were  sent  to  her  father's  friend, 
Charles  Dickens,  then  editor  of  "  Household 
Words."  The  success  of  her  efforts  led  her  to 
disclose  her  identity.  She  became  a  Roman 
Catholic  and  was  indefatigable  in  charitable 
work.  An  enlarged  edition  of  "  Legends  and 
Verses"  was  issued  in  1861.  "A  Chaplet  of 
Verses  "  appeared  in  1862,  and  a  complete  edi- 
tion of  her  poems,  with  an  introduction  by 
Charles  Dickens,  was  issued  not  long  after  her 
death. 

PROCTER,  Bryan  "Waller,  barrister,  b. 
London,  1787 ;  d.  London,  1874.  Educated  at 
Harrow.  He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1831. 
Held  the  post  of  Commissioner  of  Lunacy  from 
1831  to  1861.  His  first  work  was  published 
underthe  pen-name  of  "  Barry  Cornwall."  Au- 
thor of  "  Dramatic  Scenes  and  Other  Poems," 
1819  ;  "  Mirandola,"  a  play  that  had  a  success- 
ful run  at  Co  vent  Garden,  1821;  "A  Sicilian 


702 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


Story,"  1821;  "Flood  of  Thessaly,"  1823; 
"  English  Songs,"  1832  ;  and  memoirs  of  Shake- 
speare, Lamb,  and  others.  A  natural  and  ex- 
quisite song-writer,  associated  in  literary  annals 
with  our  traditions  of  Lamb,  Hunt,  Laiidor, 
Keats,  Shelley,  and  the  post-Georgian  school. 
Cp.  "  Victorian  Poets,"  chap.  iii. 

QUILLER-COUCH,  Arthur  Thomas,  ro- 
mancer, b.  Bod  win  in  Cornwall,  1863.  Educated 
at  Clifton  College  and  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 
Has  published  "The  Splendid  Spur,"  1889; 
"  The  Delectable  Duchy,"  1893  ;  "  Green  Bays  " 
and  "  The  White  Moth  "  (verse),  1893. 

RADFORD,  Dollie,  b.  1858.  Author  of  "  A 
Light  Load,"  1891 ;  "  Songs  and  other  Verses," 
1895.  Was  Miss  Dollie  Maitland  before  her  mar- 
riage to  the  well-known  writer  Ernest  Radford. 

RANDS,  William  Brighty,  b.  1823 ;  d.  1880. 
Wrote  under  the  pseudonyms  of  "  Henry  Hoi- 
beach,"  "Matthew  Browne,"  and  "  Timon 
Fielding."  Was  reporter  in  the  Committee 
Rooms  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Wrote  "  The 
Literary  Lounger  "  in  the  "  Illustrated  Times  "; 
contributed  to  other  periodicals.  "  Lilliput 
Levee"  appeared  in  18(34;  "Chaucer's  Eng- 
land," in  18G9  ;  "  Lilliput  Lectures,"  in  1871. 

RHYS,  Ernest,  editor,  b.  London;  1859. 
Educated  at  schools  in  Bishop  Stootford  and 
Newcastle-on-Tyne.  Became  a  milling  engi- 
neer, and  followed  his  profession  in  County 
Durham,  but  after  awhile  devoted  himself  to 
letters.  Having  resided  as  a  boy  in  South 
Wales,  he  has  paid  special  attention  to  the 
translation  of  Welsh  literature.  Editor  of  the 
"Camelot  Series,"  sixty-five  volumes,  1885-90, 
of  popular  reprints  and  translations.  Author  of 
"The  Great  Cockney  Tragedy,"  1891;  "A 
London  Rose  and  Other  Rhymes,"  1894 ;  "  Life 
of  Sir  Frederick  Leighton,  P.  R.  A.,"  1895. 
Member  of  the  Rhymers'  Club,  and  a  contribu- 
tor to  its  "  First  "  and  "  Second  Books,"  1893- 
94. 

ROBERTS,  Charles  George  Douglas,  pro- 
fessor, b.  New  Brunswick,  1860.  The  son  of  a 
clergyman,  he  was  educated  at  home  under  his 
father's  instruction,  and  at  the  University  of 
New  Brunswick.  Was  made  head  master  of 
Chatham  Grammar  School  in  1879.  Two  years 
later  edited  the  Toronto  "  Week  "  for  a  short 
time.  In  1885  became  professor  of  Modern  Lit- 
erature in  King's  College,  Windsor,  N.  S.  Au- 
thor of  "  Orion  and  Other  Poems,"  1880;  "  In 
Divers  Tones,"  1887;  "  Songs  of  the  Common 
Day,"  1893.  Has  now  resigned  his  professor- 
ship to  devote  himself  more  freely  to  literature. 
He  has  been  an  influential  leader  of  the  new 
and  promising  Canadian  group  of  writers. 

ROBERTS,  Jane  Elizabeth  Gostwycke,  b. 
Westcock,  New  Brunswick.  Sister  of  C.  G.  D. 
Roberts. 

ROBINSON,  A.  Mary  F.— See  A.  M.  F. 
Darmesteter. 

RODD,  Rennell,  diplomatist,  b.  1858.  His 
poem  on  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  won  for  him  the 


Newdigate  prize  at  Oxford,  in  1880.  Appointed 
to  the  Berlin  Embassy  in  1884,  and  afterwards 
connected  with  the  Legation  at  Athens.  In  ad- 
dition to  "  Feda  and  Other  Poems,"  1886,  has 
published  some  volumes  of  verse  and  two  prose 
works. 

ROPES,  Arthur  Reed,  b.  near  London, 
1859.  Son  of  an  American  merchant  whc 
settled  in  England,  and  nephew  of  John  C. 
Ropes,  the  writer  on  military  history.  Fellow  of 
King's  College,  Cambridge,  1884-90.  Published 
"Poems"  in  1884,  and  has  since  written  lyrics 
for  the  stage  under  the  name  of  "  Adrian  Roos." 
Edited,  also,  selections  from  the  letters  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu. 

ROSCOE,  William  Caldwell,  b,  Liverpool, 
1823  ;  d.  1859.  Took  his  degree  at  University 
College,  London,  1843.  Called  to  the  Bar,  1850, 
but  owing  to  ill-health  he  was  obliged  to  give 
up  practice.  His  "  Poems  and  Essays,"  in  two 
volumes,  were  edited  with  a  memoir,  by  his 
brother-in-law,  Richard  Holt  Hutton,  after  his 
death. 

ROSSETTI,  Christina  Georgina,  b.  Lou- 
don,  1830 ;  d.  London,  1894.  Daughter  of  Ga- 
briel Rossetti,  an  Italian  political  exile  and  dis- 
tinguished student  of  Dante,  and  sister  of 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.  In  the  front  rank  of 
'  modern  women  poets.  Her  later  work  is  devo- 
tional in  sentiment,  and  consists  chiefly  of  poeti- 
cal commentaries  on  religious  subjects.  Collec- 
tive editions  of  her  poems  have  been  published 
in  England  and  America.  Author  of  "  Goblin 
Market  and  Other  Poems,"  1862  ;  "  The  Prince's 
Progress  and  Other  Poems,"  18(56;  "Sing-Song, 
a  Nursery  Rhyme-book,"  1872;  "Annus  Do- 
mini, a  Collect  for  Each  Day  of  the  Year,"  1874  ; 
"  A  Pageant  and  Other  Poems,"  1881 ;  "  Letter 
and  Spirit,  Notes  on  the  Commandments,"  1883; 
"  Time  Flies,  a  Reading  Diary,"  1885. 

ROSSETTI,  Dante  Gabriel  (Gabriel 
Charles  Dante),  painter,  b.  London,  1828  ;  d. 
Westgate-on-Sea,  1882.  Son  of  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti and  brother  of  Christina  Rossetti.  Edu- 
cated at  King's  College  School ;  studied  art  at 
the  Royal  Academy  Antique  School  and  in 
Ford  Madox  Brown's  studio.  He  was  confess- 
edly the  leader  and  exemplar  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  School,  both  in  painting  and  poetry. 
In  1800,  with  the  assistance  of  a  few  associates  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood,  he  founded 
"  The  Germ,"  which  was  the  organ  of  the  order, 
and  in  which  "  The  Blessed  Damozel "  appeared 
in  1850.  His  pictures  are  distinguished  by  the 
same  subtle  quality  that  marks  his  verse,  and 
exercised  as  great  an  influence  in  art  as  the  lat- 
ter did  in  literature.  His  "  Early  Italian  Poets," 
a  translation,  appeared  in  18(51 ;  "Poems,"  in 
1870  ;  "  Dante  and  His  Circle,"  also  a  transla- 
tion, in  1874  ;  and  "  Ballads  and  Sonnets,"  in 
1881.  "  Cp.  "  Victorian  Poets,"  chap,  x  and  p. 
439. 

ROSSLYN,  4th  Earl  of,  Francis  Robert 
St  Glair  Erskine,  b.  1833;  d.  1890.  Pub- 
lished his  "Sonnets"  in  1883. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


7°3 


RUSKLN,  John,  critic  and  virtuoso,  and 
Slade  Professor  of  Fine  Arts  at  Oxford,  b.  Lon- 
don, 8  Feb.,  1819  ;  d.  Brentwood,  near  Coniston, 
20  Jan.,  1900.  Educated  at  Oxford,  where  he 
took  the  Newdigate  prize  in  1829.  Devoted 
himself  to  art,  and  in  1843  published  the  first 
volume  of  "Modern  Painters,"  which  work 
finally  consisted  of  five  volumes,  illustrated  by 
himself.  Besides  many  noble  books  on  the 
fine  arts,  composed  in  his  fervent  and  cumula- 
tive style,  he  published  two  architectural  trea- 
tises. His  writings  often  involved  a  criticism 
of  life,  from  an  idealist's  point  of  view,  and 
bore  upon  social  problems.  Under  the  title 
"  Praeterita,"  1885-1889,  he  issued  what  is 
practically  his  autobiography. 

RUSSELL,  George  William  ("A.  E."), 
b.  Durgan,  a  town  in  the  North  of  Ireland, 
1807.  Moved  to  Dublin  with  his  family  at  the 
age  of  ten.  Formed  the  acquaintance  of  a 
group  of  literary  people,  of  which  W.  B.  Yeats 
and  Katharine  Tynan  were  conspicuous  mem- 
bers. He  studied  art  for  a  short  time.  His 
poems  have  been  published  under  the  initials 
"  A.  E."  "  Homeward  Songs  by  the  Way  " 
was  reissued  in  the  United  States,  1895. 

RUSSELL,  Percy,  Australian  journalist 
and  poet,  now  living  in  London.  Author  of 
"  King  Alfred  and  Other  Poems,"  1880  ;  "  My 
Strange  Wife,"  1886. 

SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG,  George  Fran- 
cis, b.  County  Dublin,  1845.  Educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Professor  of  History 
and  English  Literature  in  Queen's  College, 
Cork,  and  a  professor  of  the  Queen's  University, 
Ireland.  Edited  the  works  of  his  deceased 
brother,  Edmund  J.  Armstrong,  with  a  biogra- 
phy. Made  Litt.  D.,  Queen's  University,  1882, 
and  is  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  University  of  Ire- 
land. Author  of  many  poetical  works,  among 
which  are  "  Poems,  Lyrical  and  Dramatic," 
1879;  "Ugone,  a  Tragedy,"  1870;  "The 
Tragedy  of  Israel"  (a  trilogy),  1872-76;  "Sto- 
ries of  Wicklow,"  1886  ;  "  One  in  the  Infnite," 
1891.  An  edition  of  all  his  poetry,  in  10  vol- 
umes, was  issued  in  1^92. 

SCHUYLER  -  LIGHTHALL,  William 
Douw.  advocate,  b.  Hamilton,  Ontario,  1857. 
Published  several  volumes  on  Canadian  na- 
tional life.  "  Thoughts,  Moods,  and  Ideals," 
a  small  book  of  verse,  was  printed  for  private 
circulation  in  1887.  He  also  edited  "Songs  of 
the  Great  Dominion,"  1889. 

SCOTT,  Clement  William,  dramatist  and 
dramatic  critic,  b.  Hoxton,  London,  1841.  Son 
of  Rev.  William  Scott.  Educated  at  Marlbor- 
ough  College,  Wiltshire.  Appointed  to  a  clerk- 
ship in  the  War  Office,  1860,  and  in  1879  re- 
tired on  a  pe_nsion.  Has  contributed  to  many 
of  the  leading  English  periodicals.  Became 
dramatic  critic  to  the  London  "  Daily  Tele- 
graph "  in  1879.  "  Lays  of  a  Londoner  "  ap- 
peared in  1882  ;  "Lays  and  Legends,"  in  1888. 
Is  the  author  of  several  successful  plays,  among 
which  are  "The  Cape  Mail,"  "Odette,"  and 


"Sister  Mary,"  in  which  he  collaborated  with 
Wilson  Barrett. 

SCOTT,  Duncan  Campbell,  b.  Ottawa, 
1862.  Lived  in  Ottawa,  and  subsequently  in 
Quebec,  until  1879,  when  he  entered  the  Indian 
Department  of  the  Civil  Service,  and  is  now 
chief  clerk  of  that  department.  He  published 
"  The  Magic  House  "  in  1893. 

SCOTT,  Frederick  George,  clergyman,  b. 
1861.  In  charge  of  a  church  at  Drummondville, 
Quebec.  Author  of  "  The  Soul's  Quest,"  1888, 
and  "  My  Lattice  and  Other  Poems,"  1894. 

SCOTT,  William  Bell,  painter  and  etcher,  b. 
near  Edinburgh,  1811 ;  d.  Ayrshire,  1890.  Edu- 
cated at  the  Edinburgh  High  School  and  stud- 
ied art  at  the  Government  Academy  and  the 
British  Museum.  Established  a  Government 
art  school  at  Newcastle,  1844.  His  early 
poems  appeared  in  the  Edinburgh  magazines. 
"Poems  of  a  Painter"  was  published  in  1854, 
and  "  A  Poet's  Harvest  Home  "  in  1882.  His 
personal  reminiscences,  largely  concerned  with 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  group  of  poets  and  painters, 
were  published  after  his  death. 

SHAIRP,  John  Campbell,  critic,  b.  Lin- 
lithgowshire,  1819;  d.  1885.  Educated  at 
Glasgow  and  Oxford.  Assistant  professor  at 
Rugby  and  afterward  professor  of  Humanity 
at  the  University  of  St.  Andrews.  In  1864 
published  a  volume  of  poems,  "Kilmahpe,  a 
Highland  Pastoral;  "  and  in  1868,  "  Studies  in 
Poetry  and  Philosophy."  Principal  of  the 
united  college  of  St.  Salvator  and  St.  Leonard 
in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews.  Elected 
Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1877. 

SHANLY,  Charles  Dawson,  journalist,  b. 
Dublin,  Ireland,  1811 ;  d.  Florida,  U.  S.,  1875. 
Educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Went  to 
Canada  and  finally  to  New  York,  where  he 
wrote  regularly  for  the  newspapers  and  mag- 
azines, but  is  claimed  as  a  Canadian  poet. 

SHARP,  William,  author  and  critic,  b. 
Garthland  Place,  Scotland,  1856.  Educated  at 
the  University  of  Glasgow.  In  youth  was  inti- 
mate with  Dante  Rossetti,  whose  biography  he 
wrote,  1882,  as  also  that  of  Browning  in  after 
years.  His  travels  have  been  extensive,  in- 
cluding a  sojourn  in  Australia,  and  visits  to 
Continental  Europe,  Northern  Africa,  and  the 
United  States.  His  earliest  book  of  poetry 
was  "  The  Human  Inheritance,  Transcripts 
from  Nature,  and  Other  Poems,"  1882.  Since 
this  have  appeared:  "Earth's  Voices,"  1884: 
"  Romantic  Ballads,"  1888  ;  "  Sospiri  di  Roma," 
1891;  "Flower  of  the  Vine,"  1892,  an  Ameri- 
can reprint  of  the  two  works  last  preceding ; 
and  "Vistas,"  1894,  weirdly  poetic  dramas, 
impressional  and  symbolic,  but  of  an  individual 
cast.  Has  written  several  novels,  etc.,  and  is 
editor  of  the  "  Canterbury  Poets  "  series. 

SIGERSON,  Dora,  b.  Dublin,  187-. 
Daughter  of  Dr.  George  Sigerson,  the  writer 
and  balladist.  Author  of  "  Verses,"  1893. 
Now  Mrs.  Clement  Shorter. 


7°4 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


SIMMONS,  Bartholomew,  b.  Kilworth, 
Ireland,  18 —  ;  d.  1850.  Obtained  a  situation  in 
the  Excise  Office,  after  removing  to  London. 
Contributed  to  various  magazines.  Published 
"  Legends,  Lyrics,  and  Other  Poems,"  1843. 

SINNETT,  Percy  F.,  b.  Norwood,  South 
Australia,  18 —  ;  d.  North  Adelaide,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-two.  He  wrote  a  number  of  politi- 
cal poems.  "  The  Song  of  the  Wild  Storm- 
Waves  "  was  written,  when  he  was  eighteen,  on 
the  loss  of  the  "  Tararua." 

8KIPSEY,  Joseph,  b.  near  North  Shields, 
1832.  Much  of  his  life,  since  his  seventh  year, 
has  been  spent  in  the  coal-pits,  at  hard  physi- 
cal labor.  "  A  Book  of  Miscellaneous  Lyrics," 
published  in  1878,  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  Pre-Raphaelite  poets.  In  1886,  "Carols 
from  the  Coalfields"  was  issued,  and  in  1892, 
"Songs  and  Lyrics." 

SLAB  EN",  Douglas  Brooke  Wheelton, 
man  of  letters,  b.  London,  1850.  Studied  at 
Cheltenham  and  Oxford,  went  to  Australia, 
1879,  and  for  a  time  was  professor  of  History 
in  the  University  of  Sydney.  From  1882  to 
1890  he  published  many  volumes  of  poems, 
among  them :  "  Frith jof  and  Ingebjorg,"  1882  ; 
"Australian  Lyrics,"  1883,  1888;  "A  Poetry 
of  Exiles,"  1884 ;  "A  Summer  Christmas," 
1885  ;  "  In  Cornwall  and  Across  the  Sea,"  1885  ; 
"Edward  the  Black  Prince"  (drama),  1886; 
"  The  Spanish  Armada,"  1888.  Editor  of  Aus- 
tralian and  Canadian  Anthologies,  which  have 
been  of  service  to  the  present  work.  An  ex- 
tensive traveller  and  industrious  writer,  he  lat- 
terly has  paid  more  attention  to  prose,  his 
books  "  The  Japs  at  Home,"  and  "  On  the  Cars 
and  Off"  (Canadian  travel),  1894,  having  been 
well  received,  —  to  which  he  has  added  a  novel, 
"  A  Japanese  Marriage,"  1895.  Is  honorary 
secretary  of  the  Authors'  Club,  London. 

SMEDLEY,  Menella  Bute,  b.  1820;  d. 
1877.  Her  delicate  health  made  it  necesary  for 
her  to  reside  for  many  years  at  Tenby,  a  sea- 
coast  town.  She  published  three  volumes  of 
verse,  many  of  the  poems  in  "Child-World" 
and  "  Poems  Written  for  a  Child,"  and  several 
successful  prose  tales. 

SMITH,  A.  C.,  clergyman.  Was  in  charge 
of  a  Presbyterian  church  in  Victoria,  Australia, 
but  afterward  moved  to  Queensland. 

SMITH,  Alexander,  b.  Kilmarnock,  31  De- 
cember, 1829  ;  d.  1867.  While  he  was  a  pattern 
designer  at  Glasgow,  some  of  his  verse  was 
published  in  the  "  Glasgow  Citizen  "  and  after- 
wards in  the  "  British  Critic."  In  1852  "  The 
Life  Drama  "  came  out  and  made  a  sensation. 
(See  W.  E.  Aytoun.)  He  became  secretary  to 
the  University  of  Edinburgh  in  1854.  Edited 
an  edition  of  Burns,  and  with  Mr.  Sidney  Do- 
bell  wrote  "  Sonnets  on  the  Crimean  War." 
"City  Poems"  appeared  in  1857;  "Edwin  of 
Deira,"  in  1861. 

SMITH,  Walter  C.,  clergyman,  b.  1824. 
Since  1876  has  been  pastor  of  the  Free  High 
Church,  Edinburgh.  Author  of  the  following 


books  of  poetry,  some  of  which  have  passed 
through  several  editions:  "Olrig  Grange,' 
"  Borland  Hill,"  "  Hilda,"  "  Raban,"  "  Bishop 
Walk  and  Other  Poems;"  also  of  "North 
Country  Folk,"  1883  ;  "  Kildrostan,  a  Dramatic 
Poem,"  1884;  "A  Heretic,"  1891. 

SOUTHESK,  Earl  of,  (Sir  James  Came 
Kie,  6th.  Earl  of  Southesk,  Scotland,  and 
Baron  Balinhard,  TJ.  K.),  b.  1827.  Author 
of  "Herminius:  a  Romance,"  1862;  "Jonas 
Fisher:  a  Poem  in  Brown  and  White,"  lJS7(i; 
"Meda  Maiden,"  1877;  "The  Burial  of  Isis, 
with  Other  Poems,"  1884. 

STANLEY,  Arthur  Penrhyn,  divine,  b. 
Alderly,  Cheshire,  1815  ;  d.  London,  1881.  Ed- 
ucated at  Rugby  and  Oxford,  where  he  was 
distinguished  for  scholarship.  For  .twelve  years 
tutor  in  the  University.  Canon  of  Canterbury 
and  of  Christ  Church,  and  Professor  of  Eccle- 
siastical History  at  Oxford.  In  1863  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  Deanery  at  Westminster,  and  in 
the  same  year  married  Lady  Augusta  Bruce, 
daughter  of  the  7th  Earl  of  Elgin.  Published 
several  prose  works  but  no  collected  edition  of 
his  poems. 

STEPHEN,  James  Kenneth,  "  J.  K.  S.," 
b.  1859 ;  d.  London,  1892.  Son  of  Sir  James 
Fitzjames  Stephen.  Educated  at  Eton  and  at 
King's  College,  Cambridge.  A  Fellow  of 
King's,  and  for  a  time  tutor  of  Prince  Albert 
Victor.  Called  to  the  Bar  at  the  Inner  Temple, 
1884.  Author  of  "  International  Law  and  In- 
ternational Relations,"  1885  ;  "  Lapsus  Calami," 
1891,  which  reached  its  fourth  edition  in  the 
same  year  ;  and  "  Quo,  musa,  tendis  ?  "  1891. 

STEPHENS,  James  Brunton,  instructor, 
b.  Linlithgowshire,  Scotland,  1835.  Emigrated 
to  Queensland,  1866.  At  one  time  head  mas- 
ter in  one  of  the  State  schools.  Author  of 
"  Miscellaneous  Poems,"  1880 ;  "  Convict  Once 
and  Other  Poems,"  1885. 

STERLING,  John,  b.  Kames  Castle  in 
Bute,  1806;  d.  1844.  Educated  at  Glasgow 
University  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
For  a  time  editor  of  the  "  Athenaeum."  Or- 
dained curate  in  1834,  but  owing  to  ill-health 
soon  gave  up  his  orders.  Published  "  Poems" 
in  18:5!),  and  "Strafford,"  a  drama,  in  1843. 
After  his  death  his  essays  and  tales  were  col- 
lected and  edited  by  Archdeacon  Hare.  The 
memoir  prefixed  to  these  caused  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  who  was  his  intimate  friend,  to  write  the 
'  Life  of  John  Sterling." 

STEVENSON,  Robert  Louis  Balfour,, 
novelist,  b.  Edinburgh,  1850 ;  d.  in  Samoa, 
1894.  Grandson  of  Robert  Stevenson,  an  emi- 
nent engineer.  His  people  having  been  engi- 
neers to  the  Board  of  Northern  Lighthouses  for 
three  generations,  he  was  at  first  trained  for  the 
same  profession.  Called  to  the  bar  in  1875, 
but  after  a  short  practice  abandoned  it.  Owing 
to  ill-health,  much  of  his  time  was  spent  in 
travelling,  until  he  finally  built  for  himself  a 
picturesque  tropical  home  near  Apia,  in  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


Samoan  Islands.  The  best  of  his  prose  ro- 
mances and  his  eminence  among  recent  writers 
of  fiction  are  familiar  to  all  readers  of  English 
literature.  In  verse  he  published  "  A  Child's 
Garden  of  Verses,"  1885 ;  "  Underwoods,"  1887 ; 
' '  Ballads, ' '  1890.  The  noble  Edinburgh  edition 
of  his  Complete  Works,  in  20  volumes,  was  just 
beginning  to  appear  at  the  time  of  his  lamented 
death. 

SWAIN,  Charles,  song-writer,  b.  Manches- 
ter, 1803 ;  d.  1874.  Was  an  engraver  in  his 
native  place.  Contributed  to  the  "  Literary 
Gazette,"  and  published  "Metrical  Essays, 
1827;  "The  Mind  and  Other  Poems,"  1831; 
"  Dramatic  Chapters  and  Other  Poems,"  1847 ; 
"English  Melodies,"  1849;  "The  Letters  of 
Laura  d'Auverne  and  Other  Poems,"  1853; 
besides  several  later  volumes  of  verse. 

SWINBURNE,  Algernon  Charles,  b.  Pim- 
lico,  5  April,  1837.  Son  of  Admiral  Swinburne, 
and,  on  his  mother's  side,  grandson  of  the  3d 
Earl  of  Ashburnham.  Educated  at  Balliol 
College,  Oxford,  where  he  contributed  to  "Un- 
dergraduate Papers,"  edited  by  John  Nichol. 
Left  Oxford,  18(50,  without  taking  his  degree, 
but  is  distinguished  for  his  command  of  the 
Greek  and  Latin  tongues,  and  the  languages  and 
literatures  derived  from  them.  Like  Shelley, 
was  from  the  first  devoted  to  liberty  .and  re- 
publicanism. The  friend  and  eulogist  of  Lan- 
dor,  Mazzini,  and  Hugo,  he  has  been  the  lyrist 
of  revolutionary  struggles  in  Italy  and  other 
lands,  though  impulsively  patriotic  where 
British  supremacy  is  at  stake.  His  early  plays, 
"The  Queen  Mother"  and  "Rosamond,"  ap- 
peared in  18(50.  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon,"  a 
classical  drama,  1865,  displayed  his  unrivalled 
rhythmical  genius,  and  of  itself  placed  him  at 
the  head  of  the  new  poets.  "  Poems  and  Bal- 
lads," 1866,  a  collection  of  his  lyrics  to  that 
date,  excited  the  criticism  of  moralists,  and  the 
poet  defended  himself  in  the  pamphlet,  "  Notes 
on  Poems  and  Reviews."  Titles  of  various 
later  poetical  works  are  as  follows  :  "  Ode  on 
the  Proclamation  of  the  French  Republic," 
1870;  "Songs  before  Sunrise  "  (a  majestic  se- 
ries of  lyrics),  1871  ;  "Songs  of  Two  Nations," 
1875 ;  "  Erectheus  "  (another  nova  antica),  1876  ; 
"Poems  and  Ballads,"  Second  and  Third  Se- 
ries, 1878,  1889;  "  Songs  of  the  Spring-Tides," 
1880;  "Tristram  of  Lyonesse,"  1882;  "A 
Century  of  Rondels,"  1883;  "A  Midsummer 
Holiday,"  etc.,  1884;  "Marino  Faliero " 
(drama),  1885  ;  "  Astrophel  and  Other  Poems," 
1894.  His  trilogy  of  Mary  Stuart  consists  of 
three  dramas:  "  Chastelard,"  1865;  "Both- 
well,"  1874;  "Mary  Stuart,"  1881.  Author, 
also,  of  many  learned,  critical,  often  controver- 
sial, literary  essays  and  studies,  written  in  a 
swift  and  eloquent  style.  Though  Mr.  Swin- 
burne is  of  a  somewhat  delicate  physique,  no 
modern  writer  has  surpassed  him  in  the  extent 
and  vigor  of  his  printed  works.  Since  the 
deaths  of  Tennyson  and  Browning,  he  has  been, 
in  the  common  judgment  of  his  guild,  the  poet 
best  qualified  by  genius  and  achievements  to 

1  See  Addend 


inherit  the  laureateship.  Cp.  "Victorian  Poets, " 
ch.  xi,  and  pp.  434-439.  [E.  c.  S.] 

SYMONDS,  John  Addington,  critic  and 
essayist,  b.  Bristol,  1840 :  d.  Rome,  1893.  Edu- 
cated at  Harrow  and  at  Balliol  College,  Oxford, 
and  was  made  Fellow  of  Magdalen,  1862.  Al- 
though a  lif e-long  sufferer  from  nervous  mala- 
dies which  forced  him  to  travel  continually  in 
search  of  a  fostering  climate,  his'  activity  in 
literary  work  was  unflagging,  and  he  produced 
sketches  of  travel,  biographies,  critical  studies 
in  art  and  literature,  and  several  volumes  of 
verse.  A  biography  of  him  has  been  compiled 
from  his  journal  and  letters  by  his  friend  Hora' 
tio  F.  Brown.  Among  his  poetical  works  are 
"  The  Sonnets  of  Michael  Angelo  and  Campa- 
nella,"  1878;  "  Animi  Figura,"  1882;  "Wine, 
Women,  and  Song,"  a  collection  and  translation 
of  the  songs  of  the  mediaeval  Latin  students, 
1884.  His  great  prose  work  is  the  "  Renaissance 
Work  in  Italy,"  1875-86. 

SYMONS,  Arthur,  critic,  b.  Wales,  1865 
A  contributor  to  the  "Academy"  and  othei 
periodicals.  Published  "Days  and  Nights," 
1889;  "Silhouettes,"  1892. 

TAYLOR,  Sir  Henry,  b.  1800;  d.  1886. 
He  went  to  sea  as  a  midshipman  in  1814,  but 
left  the  service  at  the  end  of  the  voyage.  In 
1823  he  entered  the  civil  service  at  the  Colonial 
Office,  London.  In  consideration  of  his  official 
work  and  as  a  reward  for  his  achievements  in 
literature,  he  was  made  a  Knight  Commander 
of  the  Order  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George  in 
1869.  He  published  "Isaac  Comnenus"  in 
1827 ;  "  Philip  Van  Artevelde,"  1834  ;  "  Edwin 
the  Fair,"  1842;  "Poems,"  1845;  uThe  Eve 
of  the  Conquest  and  other  Poems,"  1847 ; 
"Notes  from  Books,"  1849  ;  "A  Sicilian  Sum- 
mer," 1850;  "St.  Clement's  Eve,"  1862;  and 
his  notable  Autobiography  in  1886. 

TAYLOR,  Tom,  dramatist,  b.  Sunderland, 
1817 ;  d.  1880.  Educated  at  the  Universities  of 
Glasgow  and  Cambridge.  Author  of  "The 
Ticket-of-Leave  Man,"  and  a  series  of  histori- 
cal plays.  Editor  of  "Punch,"  1874-80,  and 
art  critic  to  the  "  Times  "  and  "  Graphic." 

TENNYSON,  Alfred,  1st  Lord  ("Baron 
Tennyson,  of  Aldworth,  Surrey,  and  Far- 
ringford,  Freshwater,  Isle  of  "Wight."  1  — 
B urke's  Peerage,  1892),  —  poet-laureate  of  Eng- 
land, and  chief  of  the  Victorian  composite  or 
"  idyllic  "  school,  —  b.  Somersby,  Lincolnshire, 
6  August,  1809 ;  d.  Aldworth  House,  Haslemere, 
Surrey,  6  October,  1892.  Through  his  father, 
Rev.  G.  C.  Tennyson,  Rector  of  Somersby,  he 
was  of  ancient  Norman  lineage.  To  a  secluded 
and  observant  life  in  youth,  passed  with  his 
poet-brothers  in  Lincolnshire  and  near  the  sea, 
we  owe  much  of  the  landscape,  atmosphere,  and 
truth  to  nature,  of  his  poetry,  and  its  exquisitely 
idyllic,  rather  than  dramatic,  characteristics. 
With  Charles  Tennyson,  he  brought  out  the 
"  Poems  by  Two  Brothers,"  now  so  rare,  in 

1827.  Entering  Trinity  College,   Cambridge, 

1828,  he  there  became  attached  to  Arthur  Henry 
i,  page  710. 


706 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES 


Hallara,  against  whom  as  a  competitor  he  won 
the  Newdigate  Prize  by  his  poem, ' '  Timbuctoo, ' ' 
1829.  During  his  college  years  he  wrote  much 
verse  (some  of  which  first  saw  the  light  half  a 
century  later),  and  published  "  Poems,  Chiefly 
Lyrical,"  1830,  in  which  volume  his  distinctive 
quality  was  indicated.  It  was,  however,  the 
"Poems,"  1832-33,  that  more  clearly  bore  the 
signs  of  coming  greatness,  and  included  some  of 
his  still  most  cherished  pieces.  On  the  whole,  this 
volume  was  Pre-Raphaelite,  and,  though  it  pre- 
ceded the  rise  of  the  group  known  by  that  name, 
equalled  in  the  archaic  beauty  of  certain  ballads 
the  extreme  reach  afterward  attained  by  poets 
who  could  not  follow  Tennyson's  advance  to 
the  higher  and  broader  domains  of  song.  The 
poet  left  Cambridge  without  his  degree,  about 
March,  1831,  and  certainly  not  yet  appreciated 
by  critics  and  the  public,  —  to  whom  he  made 
no  further  appeal  until  1842,  when  the  two- 
volume  edition  of  his  "  Poems,"  containing  so 
many  of  his  finest  lyrics  and  idylls,  brought 
him  universal  recognition.  In  1845  he  was 
awarded  a  yearly  pension  of  £200  by  the 
Queen.  His  next  works  were  "  The  Princess," 
1847,  and  "  In  Memoriam,"  1850.  The  master- 
piece last  named,  an  elegiac  poem  in  memory 
of  Hallam,  is  at  the  highest  mark  of  its  author's 
mature  wisdom  and  genius ;  it  reflects  the  ut- 
most advance  of  speculative  religious  thought 
and  scientific  research  at  the  date  of  its  produc- 
tion, and  is  both  the  sweetest  and  the  noblest 
intellectual  poem  of  the  typical  "  Victorian 
Epoch."  Wordsworth  having  passed  away, 
the  laureateship  was  awarded  to  Tennyson  in 
1850,  and  by  these  two  masters  that  office  was 
reinvested  with  a  dignity  which  had  been  un- 
worn by  it  since  the  Elizabethan  age.  The  lau- 
reate's "  Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,"  and  other  national  lyrics,  were 
included  with  "Maud  and  Other  Poems,"  1855. 
Of  his  epical  romances,  "  Idylls  of  the  King," 
begun  with  the  early  "  Morte  d' Arthur,"  four 
parts  appeared  in  1859,  and  brought  him  to  the 
height  ef  renown.  The  series  was  finally  com- 
pleted in  1885.  In  1855  Oxford  gave  him  the 
degree  of  D.  C.  L.,  and  he  was  elected,  1859,  to 
an  honorary  fellowship  of  his  own  college, 
Trinity^  Cambridge.  Was  made  F.  R.  S.  in 
1865.  The  most  noted  of  his  later  volumes, 
other  than  dramatic,  are  :  "  Enoch  Arden," 
1864  ;  "  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,"  1880 ;  "  Ti- 
resias  and  Other  Poems,"  1885;  "Locksley 
Hall,  Sixty  Years  After,"  1886 ;  "  Demeter 
and  Other  Poems,"  1889 ;  "  The  Death  of  CE- 
npne,"  etc.,  1892.  Several  of  these  books  ex- 
hibit much  of  the  lyrical  freshness  and  beauty 
of  his  earlier  song,  reinforced  by  imagination, 
wisdom,  and  mental  power.  But  throughout 
his  work  the  expression  of  the  "  master-passion  " 
is  at  most  one  of  reserve,  and  there  is  a  lack  of 
the  gift  to  combine  and  put  in  action  types  of 
human  personality.  It  was  not  strange,  then, 
that  his  repeated  efforts  to  compose  enduring 
dramas  were  unsuccessful,  judged  by  the  stand- 
ard of  his  other  productions.  His  successive 
plays,  of  course,  were  skilfully  arranged  and 


intellectually  wrought,  and  some  of  them, 
brought  out  by  Irving,  had  every  advantage  of 
the  English  stage  ;  but  they  were  the  tours-de- 
force of  a  perfect  artist,  and  essentially  undra- 
matic,  from  first  to  last  of  the  following  series  : 
"Queen  Mary,"  1875;  "Harold,"  1876;  "The 
Falcon  "  and  "  The  Lover's  Tale,"  1879  ;  "  The 
Cup,"  1881;  "The  Promise  of  May,"  1882; 
"Becket,"  1884;  "The  Foresters,"  1892.  In 
1884,  Tennyson  was  raised  to  the  peerage.  No 
conferred  title  could  increase  his  name  and 
fame,  but  his  new  station,  in  view  of  his  liberal 
conservatism  and  intensely  English  allegiance, 
and  as  the  logical  recognition  of  genius,  — 
whether  military,  political,  or  creative, —  in  a 
monarchical  country,  was  one  plainly  within 
his  liberties  to  accept  for  himself  and  his  in- 
heritors. After  many  years'  residence  at  Far- 
ringford,  Isle  of  Wight,  — near  which  a  beacon 
is  to  be  erected  by  English  and  American  sub- 
scribers, —  he  died  at  Aldworth,  full  of  honors 
such  as  no  English  poet  had  received  before 
him.  He  was  buried,  12  October,  1892,  near 
the  grave  of  Chaucer,  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
the  fit  resting-place  of  a  bard  and  laureate 
"  certainly  to  be  regarded,  in  time  to  come,  as, 
all  in  all,  the  fullest  representative  of  the  re- 
fined, speculative,  complex  Victorian  age." 
Cp.  F.  Tennyson,  C.  Tennyson  Turner,  A.  H. 
Hallam.  See,  also,  "  Victorian  Poets,"  chh.  v 
and  vi,  and  pp.  417-424.  [E.  c.  s.] 

TENNYSON,  Charles. -See  Charles  Ten- 
nyson Turner. 

TENNYSON,  Frederick,  b.  Louth,  1807. 
An  elder  brother  of  Alfred  Tennyson.  Edu- 
cated at  Eton  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge. 
Married  an  Italian  girl  and  lived  in  Florence, 
but  returned  to  England  in  1 859  and  took  up  a 
residence  in  Jersey.  Author  of  "  Days  and 
Hours,"  1854;  "The  Isles  of  Greece,"  U90; 
"  Daphne  and  Other  Poems,"  1891 ;  "  Poems  of 
the  Day  and  Year, ' '  1895.  Died  in  London ,  1898. 

THACKERAY,  William  Makepeace,  one 
of  the  two  greatest  Victorian  novelists,  b.  Cal- 
cutta, 1811 ;  d.  London,  1863.  After  his  early 
childhood  in  India,  was  sent  to  England,  and  to 
the  Charterhouse  School ;  then  passed  a  year 
at  Trinity,  Cambridge,  but  left  without  a  de- 
gree, wishing  to  become  an  artist.  His  knack 
as  a  draughtsman,  however,  and  his  student- 
life  in  Paris,  combined  merely  to  aid  him  in  the 
literary  career  tipon  which  circumstances,  and 
the  bent  of  his  true  genius,  were  soon  to  start 
him.  As  Dickens  made  his  novels  profit  by  a 
youthful  acquaintance  with  low  life,  and  by  his 
service  as  a  law-clerk  and  newspaper-reporter, 
so  Thackeray's  novels  of  society  would  have 
been  impossible  but  for  his  good  birth  and 
breeding,  his  touch  of  university  and  studio  life, 
and  his  travel  on  the  Continent.  As  an  author 
he  began  by  contributing  to  "Fraser's,"  1837- 
42,  a  series  of  writings,  among  which  the  '"  Yel- 
lowplush  Papers,"  and  the  really  powerful 
"  Luck  of  Barry  Lyndon,"  of  themselves  would 
place  him  among  the  foremost  of  modern  satir- 
ists. He  also  wrote  for  "  Punch,"  wherein  the 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


707 


"  Ballads  of  Policeman  X."  appeared,  1842.  In 
fact,  beside  his  ability  to  illustrate  his  story 
effectively,  if  faultily,  with  drawings  of  his  own, 
he  had  equally  a  turn  for  verse,  was  a  born  bal- 
ladist,  and  his  poems  —  avowedly  "minor" 
pieces  —  are  delightful  with  the  mirth  and  ten- 
derness of  his  rich  nature.  In  1855,  he  gathered 
them,  from  his  own  books  and  from  various 
periodicals,  into  a  little  volume  published  simul- 
taneously in  England  and  America.  Was  the 
first  editor  of  the  "  Cornhill,"  1859-62.  Of  his 
greater  work  in  fiction,  the  masterpieces  are : 
"Vanity.  Fair,"  1848;  "Pendennis,"  1850; 
"Henry  Esmond,"  1852;  "The  Newcomes," 
1854.  '  [E.  c.  s.] 

THOM,  William,  the  "  Inverary  poet,"  b. 
Aberdeen,  1798 ;  d.  Dundee,  1848.  For  many 
years  a  weaver  in  humble  circumstances.  The 
publication  of  a  poem  in  the  "  Aberdeen  Her- 
ald," 1841,  called  attention  to  his  talent. 
Through  the  influence  of  friends  he  visited  Lon- 
don, where  he  was  warmly  received.  Published 
"  Rhymes  and  Recollections  of  a  Haudloom 
Weaver"  in  1844. 

THOMPSON,  Francis,  b.  about  1859.  Was 
educated  at  a  Catholic  college  and  was  urged 
by  his  family  to  become  a  medical  student. 
Believing  that  literature  offered  the  only  suita- 
ble career  for  him,  he  left  home  and  underwent 
great  privations  in  the  pursuit  of  his  chosen  call- 
ing. His  poetry  was  collected  and  published 
in  1894  under  the  title  of  "  Poems,"  and  is 
followed  by  another  volume,  "  Songs  Wing- 
to- Wing  :  an  Offering  to  Two  Sisters,"  1895. 

THOMSON,  James,  b.  Port  Glasgow,  1834  ; 
d.  London,  1882.  He  was  assistant  schoolmas- 
ter at  an  army  station,  and  later  a  clerk  in  a 
solicitor's  office.  Subsequently  he  visited  the 
United  States  in  the  interests  of  a  mining  com- 
pany and,  returning  in  a  short  time  from  that 
mission,  he  went  to  Spain  as  the  representative 
of  the  "New  York  World"  during  the  Carlist 
insurrections.  A  singular,  but  undoubted  gen- 
ius, whose  life  and  death  were  infelicitous, 
but  who  has  left  his  mark  on  English  verse. 
Author  of  "The  Doom  of  a  City,"  1857; 
"Sunday  at  Hampstead,"  1863;  "  Sunday  up 
the  River."  1868;  "The  City  of  Dreadful 
Night, "1874;  "Vane's  Story,"  1880 ;  "Insom- 
nia," 1882.  Cp.  "Victorian  Poets,"  pp.  435- 
437. 

THORNBtJRY,  George  Walter,  man  of 
letters,  b.  1828  ;  d.  1876.  Son  of  a  London  so- 
licitor. When  seventeen,  contributed  a  series 
of  prose  articles  to  the  "Bristol  Journal." 
Published  his  first  volume  of  verse,  "  Lays  and 
Legends,  or  Ballads  of  the  New  World,"  in 
1<S51.  This  was  followed  by  one  or  two  prose 
works,  after  which  he  spent  some  time  in  travel- 
ling in  the  East.  In  1857.  issued  his  best  volume 
of  poetry,  "  Songs  of  the  Cavaliers  and  Round- 
heads," and  in  1875,  "  Legendary  and  Historic 
Ballads."  His  prose  writings  were  continuous. 

TODHTTNTF1R.  John,  physician,  b.  Dublin, 
1839.  Educated  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 


and  at  Paris  and  Vienna.  Took  his  medical 
degree  in  1866,  but  is  chiefly  devoted  to  letters. 
Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Alexandra 
College,  Dublin,  from  1870  to  1874.  Among  his 
published  works  are  "  Laurella  and  Other 
Poems,"  1876;  "  Forest  Songs,"  1881;  "He- 
lena in  Troas,"  a  drama,  1886  ;  "  The  Banshee 
and  Other  Poems,"  1888. 

TOMSON,  Graham  R.  —  See  Rosamund 
Marriott  Watson. 

TOWNSHEND,  Chauncey  Hare,  b.  1800; 
d.  18(58.  Educated  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge, 
and  took  the  degree  of  M.  A.  in  1824.  Author 
of  "Jerusalem,"  1828;  "Sermons  in  Sonnets, 
with  Other  Poems,"  1851;  "  The  Shell  Gates," 
1859. 

TRENCH,  Richard  Chenevix,  divine,  b. 
Dublin,  1807;  d.  1886.  Was  educated  at  Har- 
row and  Cambridge.  Dean  of  Westminster  and 
Archbishop  of  Dublin,  1864-1884.  Author  of 
"  The  Study  of  Words,"  1851 ;  "  English,  Past 
and  Present,"  1855  ;  and  other  prose  works. 
His  poems  were  collected  and  published  in 
1865. 

TURNER,  Charles  Tennyson,  clergyman, 
b.  1808 ;  d.  Cheltenham,  1879.  Elder  brother 
of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson.  In  1827,  "Poems 
by  Two  Brothers,"  written  by  himself  and  Al- 
fred, was  published.  He  was  graduated  at 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  1832  ;  and  ordained 
in  1835.  Became  vicar  of  Grasby.  Married 
Louisa  Sellwood,  sister  of  Lady  Tennyson,  in 
1836.  In  1835,  by  the  death  of  his  great-uncle, 
Samuel  Turner,  he  succeeded  to  the  estate  of 
Caistor  and  took  the  name  of  Turner.  An 
authoritative  collection  of  his  sonnets  was  pub- 
lished in  1880,  after  his  death. 

TYNAN,  Katharine.  —  See  Katharine 
Tynan  Hinkson. 

TYRWHITT,  Reginald  (or  Richard?) 
St.  John,  clergyman,  b.  about  1826.  Was 
graduated  at  Oxford,  1849.  Vicar  of  St.  Mary 
Magdalen,  Oxford,  1858-72.  Author  of  several 
works  upon  symbolic  art,  etc.,  and  of  "  Free 
Field  Lyrics,  chiefly  Descriptive,"  1888.  —  Ow- 
ing to  the  lateness  with  which  the  foregoing 
notes  were  obtained,  the  spirited  hunting-bal- 
lad by  this  poet  is  somewhat  out  of  chronologi- 
cal order,  among  the  selections  from  Victorian 
"  Balladists  and  Lyrists."  D.  Oxford,  1895. 

VEITCH,  John,  philosopher  and  critic,  bo 
Peebles,  near  Edinburgh,  1829  ;  d.  there,  1894. 
Educated  at  the  Grammar  School  and  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinburgh.  Professor  of  Logic, 
Metaphysics,  and  Rhetoric,  in  the  University  of 
St.  Andrews,  and  afterwards  of  Logic  in  Glas- 
gow University.  Prose  writer  and  author  of 
"  The  Tweed  and  Other  Poems,"  1875  ;  "  Mer- 
lin and  Other  Poems,"  1889. 

VELEY,  Margaret,  b.  1843;  d.  1887. 
Daughter  of  Augustus  Charles  Veley,  a  solici- 
tor in  Braintree,  Essex.  Began  writing  verse  at 
an  early  age.  Contributed  both  prose  and  poetry 
to  the  leading  periodicals  of  London  and  Amer- 


708 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


ica.  Her  poems  were  collected  and  published 
in  1889,  with  a  biographical  preface  by  Leslie 
Stephen. 

•'  VIOLET  FANE."  — See  Lady  Currie. 

WADDINGTON,  Samuel,  b.  Boston  Spa, 
Yorkshire,  1844.  Took  his  degree  from  Brase- 
nose  College,  Oxford,  IMio.  Obtained  an  ap- 
pointment at  the  Board  of  Trade.  In  1881, 
published  "  English  Sonnets  by  Living  Writ- 
ers." His  first  book  of  original  verse  appeared 
in  1884,  entitled  "Sonnets  and  Other  Verse." 

WADE,  Thomas,  dramatist,  b.  1805 ;  d. 
Jersey,  1875.  Issued  his  first  volume  of  verse 
in  1825.  Was  a  friend  of  W.  J.  Lintou,  and 
one  of  the  band  of  radicals  and  poet-reformers 
who  flourished  in  1836-50.  Wrote  several 
dramas,  some  of  which  were  played  with  suc- 
cess at  Covent  Garden.  Edited  "  The  British 
Press"  and  contributed  to  "The  National" 
and  other  periodicals.  Issued  "  Mundi  et  Cor- 
dis  Carmina,"  a  collection  of  poems,  in  1835 ; 
"  The  Contention  of  Death  and  Love,"  "  He- 
lena," "The  Shadow-Seeker,"  1837;  "Pro- 
thauasia,"  1839. 

WALKER,  William  Sidney,  scholar  and 
critic,  b.  Pembroke,  South  Walesi  1J95 »  d. 
1846.  Educated  at  Eton  and  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege. When  but  seventeen  wrote  an  epic  poem, 
"  Gustavas  Vasa."  Later,  he  edited  a  "  Corpus 
Poetarum  Latinorum."  His  Shakespearean 
notes  appeared  in  1854  and  1860,  and  his  "  Poet- 
ical Remains  "  in  1852. 

WALLER,  John  Francis,  barrister,  b. 
Limerick,  1810 ;  d.  1894.  Author  of  a  number 
of  poems,  but  is  more  widely  known  as  a  critic 
and  essayist. 

WARREN",  John  Leicester.  —  See  Lord 
De  Tabley. 

WATSON",  Rosamund  Marriott  ("  Gra- 
ham R.  Tomson"),  b.  London,  I860.  Under 
the  latter  designation  she  gained  her  repute  as 
the  author  of  "  The  Bird-Bride,  a  Volume  of 
Ballads  and  Sonnets,"  published  in  1889;  "A 
Summer  Night  and  Other  Poems,"  1891 ;  "After 
Sunset,"  1895.  Has  edited  several  anthologies. 
This  poet  announces  that  hereafter  her  writings 
will  appear  with  the  signature,  "  Rosamund 
Marriott  Watson."  Has  contributed  to  Eng- 
lish and  American  periodicals  under  the  name 
of  "  R.  Armytage." 

WATSON,  William,  b.  Burley-in-Wharfe- 
dale,  1858.  The  latter  part  of  his  childhood 
and  early  manhood  were  spent  near  Liverpool. 
In  1875  some  of  his  poems  appeared  in  "  The 
Argus,"  a  Liverpool  periodical.  "  The  Prince's 
Quest  and  Other  Poems "  was  published  in 
1880.  "Epigrams"  was  issued  in  1884.  In 
1885,  he  contributed  to  the  "  National  Review  " 
a  sonnet-sequence,  "  Ver  Tenebrosum."  Came 
into  high  repute  through  his  stately  and  imagi- 
native poems  on  Wordsworth,  Shelley,  and  Ten- 
nyson, the  last  of  which  is  reprinted  in  this 
Anthology.  His  collected  "  Poems  "  appeared 


iu  1893,  followed  by  "  Odes  and  Other  Poems," 
1894. 

WATTS,  Theodore,  critic,  b.  St.  Ives, 
1836.  Originally  trained  as  a  naturalist,  but 
afterwards  studied  law,  and  passed  his  exami- 
nation in  1863.  Has  resided  chiefly  in  London. 
Intimately  associated  with  D.  G.  Rossetti  and 
others  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites,  and  now  a  de- 
voted friend  and  companion  of  Mr.  Swinburne. 
Contributed  articles  to  the  "  Encyclopedia 
Britaunica,"  expounding  the  principles  of  the 
"Romantic  movement,"  the  Nature  of  Poetry, 
etc.  Contributed  to  the  "  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury "  and  the  "  Examiner,"  and  is  leading 
critic  of  the  "  Athenaeum  "  in  poetry  and  the 
arts.  A  collection  of  his  poems  and  sonnets 
has  long  been  promised. 

WAUGH,  Edwin,  "the  Laureate  of  Lan- 
cashire,"   b.    Rochdale,    1818 ;    d.    18!)0.      A 
Srinter   and    bookseller,   who    finally   devoted 
imself  to  literature,  and  won  regard  by  the 
truth  to  nature  of  his  poems  in  the  Lancashire 
dialect,   and   by  his  local  tales  and  sketches. 
Author  of    "Lancashire    Sketches,"    "Poems 
and  Lancashire  Songs,"  etc.,  and  much  other 
prose  and  verse.     His  complete  works,  in   10 
volumes,  were  published  1881-83. 

WEATHEHLY,  Frederic  Edward,  bar- 
rister, b.  Portishead,  1848.  Published  his  first 
volume  of  verse,  "  Muriel  and  Other  Poems," 
1870.  Took  his  degree  from  Brasenose  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  1871.  Called  to  the  Bar,  1887. 
Many  of  his  lyrics  have  been  set  to  music  by 
leading  composers  and  are  very  popular.  He 
has  also  written  librettos,  and  several  books  for 
children. 

WEBSTER,  Augusta  (Davies),  b.  Poole,' 
Dorsetshire,  1840  ;  d.  1894.  Daughter  of  Vice- 
Admiral  George  Davies.  In  1860  published 
"Blanche  Lisle  and  Other  Poems,"  using  the 
pseudonym  "Cecil  Home."  In  1863  married 
Mr.  Thomas  Webster,  Fellow  and  Law  Lec- 
turer of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  but  now 
a  solicitor  in  London.  "  A  Woman  Sold  and 
Other  Poems  "  appeared  in  18(>7.  Author  of 
several  metrical  dramas,  and  of  some  fine  trans- 
lations of  Greek  tragedies.  "In  a  Day,"  a 
drama,  appeared  in  1882. 

WEIR,  Arthur,  banker,  b.  Montreal,  1^64. 
Educated  at  Montreal  High  School  and  McGill 
University.  Held  editorial  positions  on  Cana- 
dian newspapers  for  several  years,  and  then  be- 
came an  analytical  chemist,  but  gave  up  science 
to  enter  his  father's  bank.  "  Fleurs  de  Lys  " 
appeared  in  1887,  and  "  The  Romance  of  Sir 
Richard,  Sonnets,  and  Other  Poems"  in  1890. 

WELCH,  Sarah.  Lives  in  Adelaide,  South 
Australia,  and  is  a  nurse  in  hospitals.  Author 
of  "The  Dying  Chorister,  and  the  Chorister's 
Funeral,"  1879. 

WELDON.  Charles,  18 1850.    In  Linton 

and  Stoddard's   "English   Verse,"  Weldon  is 
set  down  as  an  Englishman,  whose  poems  ap- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


709 


peared  over  the  signature  "0.  0.'"  in  the  New 
York  >%  Tribune,"  1660-56. 

WELLS,  Charles  Jeremiah,  b.  1800;  d. 
Marseilles,  1879.  In  his  youth  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  Keats  brothers,  and  with  R. 
H.  Home.  In  1822  he  published,  anonymously, 
"Stories  after  Nature,"  and  in  1824,  "Joseph 
and  His  Brethren,  a  Scriptural  Drama :  in  Two 
Acts,"  using  the  pseudonym  "  H.  L.  Howard." 
This  was  revived  in  1&76,  with  an  introduction 
by  Mr.  Swinburne.  Practised  law  early  in  life, 
and  at  one  time  held  a  professorship  at  Quim- 
per.  His  closing  years  were  passed  at  Mar- 
seilles. 

WESTWOOD,  Thomas,  b.  1814 ;  d.  1888. 
In  youth  became  an  intimate  friend  of  Charles 
Lamb.  Was  enthusiastic  on  the  subject  of 
angling,  and  published  in  1864  "  The  Chronicle 
of  the  Complete  Angler."  His  first  volume  of 
verse.  "  Poems,"  appeared  in  1840.  In  1844  he 
removed  to  Belgium  as  a  railway  official. 
"Gathered  in  the  Gloaming,"  issued  in  1885, 
is  a  collection  of  poems  previously  printed. 

WETHERALD,  Ethelwyn,  b.  in  Ontario, 
Can.,  of  English  Quaker  parentage.  Educated 
at  a  Friends'  boarding-school  in  New  York 
State,  and  at  Pickering  College,  Ontario.  She 
is  a  journalist,  and  has  contributed  poems  and 
verse  to  periodicals  in  the  United  States  and 
Canada.  No  collected  volume  of  her  works 
has  yet  been  published. 

WHITE,  Gleeson,  art  editor,  b.  1851. 
Now  follows  his  profession  in  London,  where 
he  has  been  editor  of  "  The  Studio  "  and  other 
select  journals ;  but  for  a  time  resided  in  the 
United  States,  and  conducted  the  N.  Y.  "  Art 
Amateur."  Writer  of  historical  and  critical 
papers  on  art,  and  a  designer  of  book-plates, 
title-pages,  etc.  Is  also  a  contributor  to  the 
Century  Guild's  "  Hobby  Horse,"  and  has 
edited  "  Ballades  and  Rondeaus,"  a  selection 
of  poems  by  Dobspn,  Lang  and  others,  with  a 
chapter  on  the  various  ballad  "  forms,"  1887. 

WHITEHEAD,  Charles,  novelist,  b.  Lon- 
don, 1804 ;  d.  Melbourne,  1862.  For  a  time 
was  engaged  in  commercial  pursuits,  but  finally 
resorted  to  literature,  and  gained  the  friend- 
ship of  Charles  Dickens.  Published  "  The 
Solitary,"  a  poem,  1831,  and  in  1834,  "  The 
Autobiography  of  Jack  Ketch,"  a  work  of 
fiction,  which  includes  "The  Confession  of 
James  Wilson."  His  most  important  novel 
was  "Richard  Savage,"  1842.  A  collective 
edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1849.  An  ad- 
mirable critical  biography  of  Whitehead,  by 
H.  T.  Mackenzie  Bell,  appeared  in  1884,  and 
since  then  has  been  revised  for  a  new  edition. 

WHITWORTH,  William  Henry.  In 
Sharp's  "  Sonnets  of  the  Century  "  it  is  stated 
that  Mr.  Whit  worth  was  head  master  in  a  large 
public  school.  Author  of  various  sonnets 
which  have  been  preserved. 

WILBERFORCE,  Samuel,  divine,  b. 
Clapham  Common,  1805  ;  d.  1873.  Son  of  Wil- 


liam Wilberforce ;  educated  at  Oxford.  Or- 
da'nied  in  U28,  and  after  several  appointments 
became  Bishop  of  Oxford  and  Winchester. 

WILDE,  Jane  Francesca  Speranza  (El- 
gee),  Lady,  widow  of  Sir  William  Wilde,  who 
died  in  1869,  an  archaeologist  of  Dublin,  and 
surgeon-oculist  to  the  Queen.  Contributed  to 
"  The  Nation,"  as  "  Speranza."  In  addition  to 
various  prose  works  and  translations  from  the 
French  and  German,  has  published  "  Ugc 
Bassi,"  1857  ;  and  "  Poems,"  1864.  D.  1896. 

WILDE,  Oscar  Fingall  O'Flahertie  Wills, 
dramatist,  b.  Dublin,  1856.  Son  of  Sir  William 
and  Lady  Wilde  ("Speranza").  Educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  and  Magdalen  College, 
Oxford,  taking  his  Oxford  degree  in  1878.  In 
both  colleges  excelled  in  prose  and  poetical  com- 
position, and  was  winner  of  the  Newdigate 
prize  at  Oxford.  Published  his  early  "  Poems  " 
in  1881.  Became  "  an  apostle  of  artistic  house 
decoration  and  dress  reform,"  and  the  author 
of  successful  plays.  "Salome,"  a  drama  in 
French,  based  on  the  story  of  Herod  and  Hero- 
dias,  appeared  in  1893. 

WILLIAMS,  Sarah  ("  Sadie"),  b.  London, 
1841 ;  d.  1868,  while  engaged  in  preparing  her 
poems  for  publication.  "Twilight  Hours:  A 
Legacy  of  verse,"  was  issued  shortly  after  her 
death,  and  contained  a  prefatory  memoir  by 
the  late  Dean  Plumptre. 

WILLS,  William  Gorman,  painter  and 
dramatist,  b.  Kilkenny  Co.,  Ireland,  1828;  d. 
London,  1891.  Educated  at  Trinity  College, 
Dublin.  Studied  art  at  the  Royal  Irish  Acad- 
emy and  acquired  some  reputation  as  a  portrait- 
painter.  Wrote  a  large  number  of  dramas, 
the  first  of  which,  "The  Man  o'  Airlie,"  was 
produced  in  1£67.  "Charles  I.,"  with  Henry 
Irving  in  the  title  character,  ran  for  two  hun- 
dred nights  at  the  "  Lyceum  "  in  1872.  Collab- 
orated with  Sydney  Grundy  and  with  Westland 
Marston. 

WOODS,  James  Chapman,  author  of  "A 
Child  of  the  People  and  Other  Poems,"  1879  ; 
"Guide  to  Swansea  and  the  Mumbles,  Gower 
and  Other  Places,"  1883 ;  a  lecture  on  "  Old 
and  Rare  Books,"  1885,  and  "  In  Foreign  By- 
ways,". 1887. 

WOODS,  Margaret  L.,  daughter  of  Dean 
Bradley  and  wife  of  President  Woods  of  Trin- 
ity College,  Oxford.  Author  of  "A  Village 
Tragedy,"  1887 ;  "  Lyrics  and  Ballads,"  1889," 
"Esther  Vanhomrigh,"  1891;  and  "Vaga- 
bonds," 1894. 

WOOLNER,  Thomas,  sculptor,  b.  Had- 
leigh,  in  Suffolk,  1825  ;  d.  London,  1892.  Edu- 
cated at  Ipswich,  and  began  to  study  sculpture 
in  the  studio  of  William  Behnes.  when  but  thir- 
teen years  of  age.  Exhibited  his  first  model 
at  the  Royal  Academy  in  1843.  His  next,  a 
group,  "  The  Death  of  Boadicea,"  established 
his  reputation.  Contributed  verse  to  "  The 
Germ."  the  magazine  published  by  the  "  Pre- 
Raphaelite  Brotherhood."  "My  Beautiful 


7io 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 


Lady"  appeared  in  1868;  "Pygmalion"  in 
1881 ;  "  Silenus  "  and  "  Tiresias  "  in  188(5. 

WOBDSWOBTH,  Ohristopher,  divine,  b. 
Braintree,  Essex,  1807 ;  d.  1885.  Nephew  of 
William  Wordsworth,  the  laureate.  Educated 
at  Winchester  School  and  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  Canon  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
and  in  1869  appointed  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  Pub- 
lished a  volume  of  poems,  "  The  Holy  Year." 

WRATI8LAW,  Theodore,  b.  Rugby,  1871, 
of  an  old  Bohemian  family  settled  in  England 
for  a  century.  In  1892  he  published  two  small 
books  of  verse,  and  in  1893,  "  Caprices." 


YEATS,  William  Butfer,  critic,  b.  Sandy- 
mount,  Dublin,  18(5(5.  Spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  childhood  at  Sligo.  Has  contributed  to 
the  "National  Observer,"  and  other  periodi- 
cals. Among  his  publications  are  "  Fairy  and 
Folk  Tales  of  the  Irish  Peasantry,"  1WS; 
"  Irish  Tales,"  a  volume  of  selections  from  the 
Irish  novelists,  issued  in  1891 ;  "  John  Sherman 
and  Dhoya "  (Pseudonym  Library),  1891  ; 
"  The  Countess  Kathleen,"  Cameo  Series, 
1892  ;  and  edited  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  E.  J. 
Ellis,  "  The  Works  of  William  Blake,"  3  vols., 
1893. 


ADDENDA 


BESANT,  Sir  Walter,  author,  b.  Ports- 
mouth, 14  Aug.,  1836.  Educated  at  King's 
College,  London,  and  later  at  Christ's  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  with  honors. 
He  soon  became  Senior  Professor  in  the  Royal 
College  of  Mauritius.  A  few  years  later  ill 
health  forced  him  to  return  to  England,  where 
he  has  since  resided.  He  served  as  Secretary 
of  the  Palestine  Exploration  Fund  until  1885, 
and  then  was  made  Hon.  Secretary.  His  first 
work  appeared  in  1868 :  "  Studies  in  Early 
French  Poetry."  In  collaboration  with  the  late 
Professor  Palmer  he  wrote  a  "  History  of  Jeru- 
salem," 1871.  In  this  same  year  he  began  his 
literary  partnership  with  the  late  James  Rice. 
The  associates  produced  many  novels,  and  two 
plays,  one  of  which  was  enacted  at  the  Court 
Theatre.  Among  Walter  Besant's  publications 
under  his  own  name  are :  "  The  French  Hu- 
morists," 1873;  "Coligny,"  1879;  "The  Re- 
volt of  Man  ;  "  "  Dorothy  Forster,"  1884; 
"  Armorel  of  Lyonnesse,"  1890  ;  "  Beyond  the 
Dreams  of  Avarice,"  1895  ;  "The  City  of  Ref- 
uge," 1896 ;  "  The  Rise  of  the  British  Empire," 
1897.  His  world-famous  novel  "  All  Sorts  and 
Conditions  of  Men,"  1882,  led  to  the  founding 
and  erection  of  thte  People's  Palace  in  the  East 
End  of  London.  He  is  the  editor  of  the  series 
of  biographies  entitled  "The  New  Plutarch," 
and  of  an  extensive  work,  "  The  Survey  of 
Western  Palestine."  In  1896  he  was  knighted. 
As  Chairman  and  the  leading  spirit  of  the  "  In- 
corporated Society  of  Authors,"  Sir  Walter's 
services  to  his  own  craft  have  been  from  first 


to  last  courageous  and  far-reaching.  He  is  held 
in  honor  and  affection  by  all  professional  writ- 
ers of  the  English  tongue.  The  charming  lyric 
"To  Daphne"  is  from  his  novel  "Dorothy 
Forster,"  where  it  is  attributed  to  the  gallant 
Lord  Derwentwater,  who  suffered  in  the  cause 
of  the  Pretender,  A.  D.  1716. 

DICKENS,  Charles,  the  great  Victorian 
novelist  of  the  common  people,  b.  Landport, 
Portsmouth,  1812  •  d.  Gadshill  Place,  near  Ro- 
chester, 1870.  "The  Ivy  Green"  is  given  in 
this  volume,  as  it  originally  appeared  in  the 
"Pickwick  Papers."  The  more  even  but  less 
spontaneous  version,  as  set  to  music  by  Henry 
Piussell,  can  be  found  in  various  song-books  and 
collections. 


In  the  notice  of  Lord  Tennyson,  p.  705,  the 
designation  of  his  title  is  taken  from  "  Burke's 
Peerage,"  but  its  correctness  may  be  open  to 
question.  Mr.  Eugene  Parsons,  of  Chicago, 
having  instituted  a  search  at  Heralds'  College, 
finds  ' '  that  the  Patent,  creating  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson, Esquire,  a  Baron  of  the  United  King- 
dom by  the  name,  style,  and  title  of  liaron 
Tennyson  of  Aldworth  in  Sussex,  and  of  Fresh- 
water in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  is  dated  January  24, 
1884." 


On  January  1,  1896,  Alfred  Austin  was  ap- 
pointed to  the  Laureateship,  which  office  until 
then  had  remained  vacant  after  the  death  of 
Lord  Tennyson  in  1892. 


INDEXES 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


A  baby's  feet,  like  sea-shells  pink,  431. 

A  being  cleaves  the  moonlit  air,  513. 

Abide  with  me  !  Fast  falls  the  eventide,  173. 

A  blood-red  ring  hung  round  the  moon,  643. 

A  boat,  beneath  a  sunny  sky,  479. 

About  Glenkindie  and  his  man,  144. 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land,  36. 

Across  the  fields  like  swallows  fly,  503. 

Across  the  sea  a  land  there  is,  409. 

A  cypress-bough,  and  a  rose-wreath  sweet,  38. 

Adieu  to  France  !  my  latest  glance,  640. 

Afar  the  hunt  in  vales  below  has  sped,  30. 

A  floating,  a  floating,  309. 

A  gallant  fleet  sailed  out  to  sea,  640. 

A  golden  gillyflower  to-day,  402. 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  !  40. 

A  happy  day  at  Whitsuntide,  108. 

Ah,  be  not  vain.     In  yon  flower-bell,  329. 

Ah,  bring  it  not  so  grudgingly,  602. 

Ah,  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain,  358. 

Ah  !  I  'm  feared  thou  's  come  too  sooin,  501. 

Ah  !  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar,  495. 

Ah  !  long  ago  since  I  or  thou,  541. 

Ah,  love,  the  teacher  we  decried,  577. 

Ah !  not  because  our  Soldier  died  before  his 
field  was  won,  250. 

A  ho  !  A  ho !  39. 

Ahoy  !  and  0-ho  !  and  it  ?s  who  's  for  the  ferry, 
515. 

Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil,  rise  up  from  that  wheel, 
95. 

Ah !  thon,  too,  sad  Alighieri,  like  a  waning 
moon,  369. 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race,  10. 

A  lane  of  elms  in  June  ;  —  the  air,  622. 

Alas,  how  soon  the  hours  are  over,  12. 

Alas,  that  my  heart  is  a  lute,  336. 

Alas,  the  moon  should  ever  beam,  119. 

Alas  !  who  knows  or  cares,  my  love,  541. 

A  line  of  light !  it  is  the  inland  sea,  254. 

A  little  fair  soul  that  knew  no  sin,  219. 

A  little  gray  hill-glade,  close-turfed,  with- 
drawn, 652. 

A  little  love,  of  Heaven  a  little  share,  527. 

A  little  while  a  little  love,  398. 

A  little  while  my  love  and  I,  295. 

All  beautiful  things  bring  sadness,  nor  alone, 
64. 

All  in  the  April  evening,  575. 

All  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves,  359. 

All  my  stars  forsake  me,  539. 

All  night  I  watched  awake  for  morning,  556. 

All  other  joys  of  life  he  strove  to  warm,  371. 

All  the  storm  has  rolled  away,  569. 


All  the  world  over,  I  wonder,  in  lands  that  I 

never  have  trod,  262. 
All  things  are  changed  save  thee,  —  thou  art 

the  same,  447. 

All  things  journey :  sun  and  moon,  155. 
All  things  that  pass,  378. 
Alone  I  stay  ;  for  I  am  lame,  578. 
A  lonely  way,  and  as  I  went  my  eyes,  294. 
Although  I  enter  not,  303. 
A  maid  who  mindful  of  her  playful  time,  339. 
Ambitious  Nile,  thy  banks  deplore,  513. 
Am  I  the  slave  they  say,  90. 
A  moth  belated,  sun  and  zephyr-kist,  290. 
"  And  even  our  women,"  lastly  grumbles  Ben, 

235. 
And  if  the  wine  you  drink,  the  lip  you  press, 

341. 

And  is  the  swallow  gone,  73. 
And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a  flush,  140. 
And  thus  all-expectant  abiding  I  waited  not 

long,  for  soon,  387. 

And  truth,  you  say,  is  all  divine,  583. 
And  we  might  trust  these  youths  and  maidens 

fair,  158. 

And  you,  ye  stars,  226. 

Anear  the  centre  of  that  northern  crest,  385. 
Another  night,  and  yet  no  tidings  come,  452. 
A  pale  and  soul-sick  woman  with  wan  eyes, 

534. 

A  pensive  photograph,  601. 
A  place  in  thy  memory,  Dearest !  90. 
A  poet  of  one  mood  in  all  my  lays,  538. 
A  poor  old  king  with  sorrow  for  my  crown,  117. 
Are  you  ready  for  your  steeple-chase,  Lorraine, 

Lorraine,  Lorree,  311. 
Are  you  tir'd  ?    But  I  seem  shameful  to  you, 

shameworthy,  420. 

Arise,  my  slumbering  soul !  arise,  92. 
A  roundel  is  wrought  as  a  ring  or  a  star-bright 

sphere,  431. 

Artemidora !  Gods  invisible,  7. 
Art's  use  ;  what  is  it  but  to  touch  the  springs, 

672. 

A  seat  for  three,  where  host  and  guest,  503. 
As  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass,  101. 
A  shoal  of  idlers,  from  a  merchant  craft,  35. 
As  I  came  round  the  harbor  buoy,  327. 
As  I  came  wandering  down  Glen  Spean,  85. 
Ask  me  no  more :   the  moon  may  draw  the 

sea,  200. 

As  one  dark  morn  I  trod  a  forest  glade,  192. 
As  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain,  497. 
As  one  who  strives  from  some  fast  steamer's 

side,  390. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES 


As  one  would  stand  who  saw  a  sudden  light,  671. 

As  on  my  bed  at  dawn  I  mus'd  and  pray'd,  192. 

A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument,  395. 

A  spade !  a  rake !  a  hoe !  121. 

As  ships,  becalm'd  at  eve,  that  lay,  214. 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went,  199. 

A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous,  303. 

As  yonder  lamp  in  my  vacated  room,  60. 

At  a  pot-house  bar  as  I  chanced  to  pass,  375. 

At  dinner  she  is  hostess,  I  am  host,  371. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we,  20. 

At  husking  time  the  tassel  fades,  674. 

Athwart  the  sky  a  lowly  sigh,  560. 

At  Nebra,  by  the  Unstrut,  297. 

At  night,  when  sick  folk  wakeful  lie,  577. 

At  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there,  380. 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleeptime, 

365. 
Awake,  my  heart,  to  be  lov'd,  awake,  awake, 

439. 

Awake  !  —  the  crimson  dawn  is  glowing,  187. 
Awake  thee,  my  Lady-love  !  17. 
Away,  haunt  thou  not  me,  214. 
Aw'd  by  her  own  rash  words  she  was  still :  and 

her  eyes  to  the  seaward.  310. 
A  Widow,  —  she  had  only  one,  466. 
A  woman's  hand.     Lo,  I  am  thankful  now,  672. 
Ay,  an  old  story,  yet  it  might,  578. 
"  Aye,  squire,      said  Stevens,  "  they  back  him 

at  evens,  617. 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side,  419. 
Barb'd  blossom  of  the  guarded  gorse,  290. 
Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead,  354. 
Beautiful  face  of  a  child,  499. 
Beautiful  spoils !    borne  off  from  vanquish'd 

death,  10. 

Beauty  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air,  168. 
Because  the  shadows  deepen'd  verily,  446. 
Because  thou  hast  the  power  and  own'st  the 

grace,  133. 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee,  312. 
Before  us  in  the  sultry  dawn  arose,  36. 
Beloved,  it  is  morn,  503. 
Beloved,  my  Beloved,  when  I  think,  132. 
Below  lies  one  whose  name  was  traced  in  sand, 

272. 

Be  mine,  and  I  will  give  thy  name,  79.  x 
Beneath  a  palm-tree  by  a  clear  cool  spring,  645. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn's   aerial  cope, 

428. 

Beneath  this  starry  arch,  125. 
Be  not  afraid  to  pray  —  to  pray  is  right,  57. 
Be  patient,  O  be  patient !  Put  your  ear  against 

the  earth,  147. 

Beside  the  pounding  cataracts,  661. 
Better  trust  all  and  be  deceiv'd,  67. 
Between  the  roadside  and  the  wood,  665. 
Between  the  showers  I  went  my  way,  579. 
Between  two  golden  tufts  of  summer  grass, . 

511. 

Beyond  a  hundred  years  and  more,  230. 
Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping,  177. 
Beyond  the  vague  Atlantic  deep,  65. 
Birds  that  were  gray  in  the  green  are  black  in 

the  yellow,  668. 
Bless  the  dear  old  verdant  land,  100. 


Blithe  playmate  of  the  Summer  time,  644. 
Blows  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the 

rain  are  flying,  526. 
Blow,  wind,  blow,  79. 
Blythe  bell,  that  calls  to  bridal  halls,  16. 
Bonnie  Bessie  Lee  had  a  face  fu'  o'  smiles,  150. 
Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away,  344. 
Borgia,  thou  once  wert  almost  too  august,  15. 
Both  thou  and  I  alike,  my  Bacchic  urn,  332. 
Brave  as  a  falcon  and  as  merciless,  491. 
Break,  break,  break,  198. 
Breath  o'  the  grass,  548. 
Brief  is  Erinna's  song,  her  lowly  lay,  498. 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !     Daughter  of  a  Fay. 

288. 

Bring  me  my  dead,  241. 
Bring  no  jarring  lute  this  way,  414. 
Bring   snow-white    lilies,   pallid   heart-flushed 

roses,  562. 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us,  170. 
Brown  eyes,  Straight  nose,  476. 
Build  high  your  white  and  dazzling  palaces, 

676. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke,  200. 
But  now  the  sun  had  pass'd  the    height  of 

Heaven,  223. 
But  oh,  the  night !  oh,  bitter-sweet !  oh,  sweet ! 

142. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on,  223. 
But  wherein  shall  art  work?     Shall  beauty 

lead,  672. 
But  yesterday  she  played  with  childish  things, 

_507. 
Buzzing,   buzzing,   buzzing,  my    golden-belted 

bees,  542. 

By  a  dim  shore  where  water  darkening,  670. 
By  copse  and  hedgerow,  waste  and  wall,  582. 

Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give  ?  132. 

Charles,  —  for  it  seems  you  wish  to,  know,  485. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches,  78. 

Chicken-skin,  delicate,  white,  487. 

Child  of  a  day,  thou  knowest  not,  10. 

Children  indeed  are  we  —  children  that  wait, 
284.  _ 

Christmas  is  here,  306. 

City  about  whose  brow  the  north  winds  blow, 
669. 

Colonos !  can  it  be  that  thou  hast  still,  67. 

Come  and  kiss  me,  mistress  Beauty,  552, 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away,  224. 

Come  from  busy  haunts  of  men,  631. 

Come  here,  good  people  great  and  small,  84. 

Come  hither,  Evan  Cameron  !  44. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, 
99. 

Come  !  in  this  cool  retreat,  632. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud,  207. 

Come  Micky  and  Molly  and  dainty  Dolly,  315. 

Come,  Sleep  !  but  mind  ye  !  if  you  come  with- 
out, 16.  _ 

Comes  something  down  with  eventide,  72. 

Come,  stand  we  here  within  this  cactus-brake, 
542. 

Comes  the  lure  of  green  things  growing,  653. 

Come  then,  a  song  ;  a  winding  gentle  song,  37. 

Come  while  the  afternoon  of  May,  607. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES 


Consider  the  sea's  listless  chime,  398. 

Cool,  and  palm-shaded  from  the  torrid  heat, 

513. 
Could  ye  come  back  to  me,  Douglas,  Douglas, 

314. 
Count  each  affliction,  whether  light  or  grave, 

69. 

Countess,  I  see  the  flying  year,  467. 
Count  the  flashes  in  the  surf,  514. 
''Courage!"  he  said,  and  pointed  toward  the 

land,  194. 
Curious,  the  ways  of  these  folk  of  humble  and 

hardy  condition,  244. 
Cursed  by  the  gods  and  crowned  with  shame, 

535. 

Darby  dear,  we  are  old  and  gray,  510. 

Dark  Lily  without  blame,  4i(9. 

Day  is  dead,  and  let  us  sleep,  463. 

Day  of  my  life  !     Where  can  she  get  ?  486. 

Dead  !  One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
137. 

Dead.     The  dead  year  is  lying  at  my  feet,  506. 

Dead,  with  their  eyes  to  the  foe,  498. 

Dear  child  !  whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame,  62. 

Dear  Cosmopolitan,  —  I  know,  490. 

Dear,  did  you  know  how  sweet  to  me,  607. 

Dear  Eyes,  set  deep  within  the  shade,  590. 

Dear,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice,  358. 

Dear,  let  me  dream  of  love,  591. 

Dear  Lord,  let  me  recount  to  Thee,  377. 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low,  16. 

Death,  though  already  in  the  world,  as  yet,  383. 

Deep  Honeysuckle  !  in  the  silent  eve,  291. 

Dire  rebel  though  he  was,  26. 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ?  377. 

Dorothy  goes  with  her  pails  to  the  ancient  well 
in  the  courtyard,  243. 

Dost  thou  not  hear?  Amid  dun,  lonely  hills, 
521. 

Dost  thou  remember,  friend  of  vanished  days, 
532. 

Doth  it  not  thrill  thee,  Poet,  594. 

Down  by  the  salley  gardens  my  love  and  I  did 
meet,  604. 

Down  lay  in  a  nook  my  lady's  brach,  26. 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  bro- 
thers, 128. 

Do  you  recall  that  night  in  June,  328. 

England  !  since  Shakespeare  died  no  loftier  day, 

186. 

Enough  !  we  're  tired,  my  heart  and  I,  130. 
Even  thus,  methinks,  a  city  rear'd  should  be, 

68. 

Faint  grew  the  yellow  buds  of  light,  606. 
Fain  would  I  have  thee  barter  fates  with  me, 

565. 

Fair  little  spirit  of  the  woodland  mazes,  644. 
Faithful  reports  of  them  have  reached  me  oft, 

650. 

Farewell,  Life  !  my  senses  swim,  123. 
Farewell,  my  Youth !  for  now  we  needs  must 

part,  574. 

Far  off  ?  Not  far  away,  495. 
Far  out  at  sea  —  the  sun  was  high,  35. 


Father !  the  little  girl  we  see,  8. 

Father,  who  keepest,  653. 

Fear  death  ?  —  to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

363. 

Fhairshon  swore  a  feud,  46. 
Fill,  comrades,  fill  the  bowl  right  well,  638. 
Fingers  on  the  holes,  Johnny,  276. 
First  time  he  kiss'd  me,  he  but  only  kiss'd,  133. 
Fleet,  fleet  and  few,  ay,  fleet  the  momepts  fly, 

493. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall,  211. 
Flower  of  the  medlar,  515. 
Flowers  I  would  bring  if  flowers  could  make 

thee  fairer,  69. 
Fly  far  from  me,  642. 
Forever  with  the  Lord  !  168. 
For  our  martyr'd  Charles  I  pawn'd  my  plate, 

302. 

Forty  Viziers  saw  I  go,  331. 
Fourteen  small  broidered  berries  on  the  hem, 

505. 

Four  years  !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above,  229. 
Fresh  with  all  airs  of  woodland  brooks,  514. 
Friends,  whom  she  look'd  at  blandly  from  her 

couch,  7. 

From  breakfast  on  through  all  the  day,  524. 
From  falling  leaf  to  falling  leaf,  603. 
From  little  signs,  like  little  stars,  233. 
From  out  the  grave  of  one  whose  budding  years, 

191. 

From  plains  that  reel  to  southward,  dim,  659. 
From  the  bonny  bells  of  heather,  525. 
From  the  recesses  of  a  lowly  spirit,  172. 
From  this  carved  chair  wherein  I  sit  to-night, 

514. 
From  where  the  steeds  of  Earth's  twin  oceans 

toss,  270. 

Frown'd  the  Laird  on  the  Lord:  "So,  red- 
handed  I  catch  thee,  364. 

Gamarra  is  a  dainty  steed,  21. 

Gaze  not  at  me,  my  poor  unhappy  bird,  267. 

Gentle  and  grave,  in  simple  dress,  240. 

Gently !  —  gently !  —  down  !  —  down  !  17. 

Get  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spin- 
ning wheel,  96. 

Give  me,  0  friend,  the  secret  of  thy  heart,  557. 

Give  me  thy  joy  in  sorrow,  gracious  Lord,  58. 

Give  me  thyself  !    It  were  as  well  to  cry,  275. 

Glass  antique,  'twixt  thee  and  Nell,  125. 

God  made  my  lady  lovely  to  behold,  444. 

God  spake  three  times  and  saved  Van  Elsen's 
soul,  657. 

God  who  created  me,  554. 

God  with  His  million  cares,  586. 

God  ye  hear  not,  how  shall  ye  hear  me,  425. 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps,  and  Greece,  228. 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand,  131. 

Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  Gold!  118. 

Gone  art  thou  ?  gone,  and  is  the  light  of  day,  147- 

Good-by  in  fear,  good-by.in  sorrow,  380. 

Gray  o  er  the  pallid  links,  haggard  and  for- 
saken, 574. 

Gray  Winter  hath  gone,  like  a  wearisome  guest 
626. 

Green,  in  the  wizard  arms,  332. 

Green  is  the  plane-tree  in  the  square,  579. 


716 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Green  leaves  panting  for  joy  with  the  great  wind 
rushing  through,  553. 

Hack  and  Hew  were  the  sons  of  God,  666. 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league,  203. 

Half  kneeling  yet,  and  half  reclining,  70. 

Half  loving-kindliness  and  half  disdain,  574. 

Happy  the  man  who  so  hath  Fortune  tried,  401. 

Hark !  ah,  the  nightingale,  225. 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose,  441. 

Hast  thou  no  right  tojpy,  399. 

Have  little  care  that  Lite  is  hrief ,  666. 

Heart  of  Earth,  let  us  be  gone,  582. 

He  came  to  call  me  back  from  death,  533. 

He  came  unlook'd  for,  undesir'd,  60. 

He  cea-s'd,  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum  had 

risen,  221. 

He  crawls  to  the  cliff  and  plays  on  a  brink,  78. 
He  crouches,  and  buries  his  face  on  his  knees, 

627. 
He  is  gone  :  better  so.    We  should  know  who 

stand  under,  165. 

He  is  the  happy  wanderer,  who  goes,  611 . 
Hence,  rude  Winter  !  crabbed  old  fellow,  143. 
Here  doth  Dionysia  lie,  232. 
Here  I  'd  come  when  weariest,  497. 
Here  in  the  country's  heart,  585. 
Here  let  us  leave  him ;  for  his  shroud  the  snow, 

292. 
Here  Love  the  slain  with  Love  the  slayer  lies, 

565. 
Here  of  a  truth  the  world's  extremes  are  met, 

545. 
Here 's  the  gold  cup  all  bossy  with  satyrs  and 

saints,  320. 

Here 's  to  him  that  grows  it,  265. 
Here,  where  precipitate  (Spring  with  one  light 

bound,  10. 

Here  where  the  sunlight,  548. 
Here  where  under  earth  his  head,  299. 
Her  face  is  hushed  in  perfect  calm,  535. 
Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  were 

purple  with  dark,  136. 
He  rises  and  begins  to  round,  373. 
Her  Master  gave  the  signal,  with  a  look,  246. 
He  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  Boy,  71. 
He  sat  among  the  woods  ;  he  heard,  499. 
He  sat  one  winter  'neath  a  linden  tree,  167. 
He  sat  the  quiet  stream  beside,  315. 
He  sendeth  sun,  he  sendeth  shower,  127. 
He  sought  Australia's  far^-famed  isle,  630. . 
He  tripp'd  up  the  steps  with  a  bow  and  a  smile, 

322. 

He  went  into  the  bush,  and  passed,  629. 
He  who  but  yesterday  would  roam,  652. 
He  who  died  at  Azan  sends,  249. 
He  wrought  at  one  great  work  for  years,  558. 
High  grace,  the  dower  of  queens  ;    and  there- 
withal, 395. 
High  grew  the  snow  beneath  the  low-hung  sky, 

647. 

High  on  a  leaf-carv'd  ancient  oaken  chair,  64. 
Hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo,  hilloo  !  674. 
His  kiss  is  sweet,  his  word  is  kind,  98. 
His  life  was  private  ;  safely  led,  aloof,  26. 
Hist,  hist,  ye  winds,  ye  whispering  wavelets 

hist,  493. 


Hold  hard,  Ned  !  Lift  me  down  once  more,  and 

lay  me  in  the  shade,  619. 

Ho  !  pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin,  304. 
Ho,  Sailor  of  the  sea  !  365. 
How  do  I  love  thee  ?  Let  me  count  the  ways, 

134. 

How  like  her  !    But  't  is  she  herself,  579. 
How  like  the  leper,  with  his  own  sad  cry,  192. 
How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to  rest, 

61. 

How  long,  O  lion,  hast  thou  fleshless  lain  ?  191. 
How  many  colors  here  do  we  see  set,  278. 
"  How  many  ?  "  said  our  good  Captain,  368. 
How  many  summers,  love,  20. 
How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ?  37. 
How  many  verses  have  I  thrown,  16. 
How  oft  I  've  watch'd  thee  from  the  gardeii 

croft,  193. 

How  slowly  creeps  the  hand  of  Time,  289. 
How  steadfastly  she  worked  at  it,  486. 
How  strange  it  is  that,  in  the  after  age,  648. 
How  sweet  the  harmonies  of  afternoon  !  188. 
How  the  leaves  sing  to  the  wind  !  658. 
How  would  the  centuries  long  asunder,  147. 

I  am  lying  in  the  tomb,  love,  261. 

"I  am  Miss  Catherine's  book"   (the  Album 

speaks),  305. 

I  am  no  gentleman,  notj  !  86. 
I  am  that  which  began,  428. 
I  am  the  spirit  astir,  651. 
I  bend  above  the  moving  stream,  36. 
>  I  bloom  but  once,  and  then  I  perish,  274. 
I  came  in  light  that  I  might  behold,  528. 
I  cannot  forget  my  Joe,  232. 
I  cannot  sing  to  thee  as  I  would  sing,  531. 
I  charge  you,  O  winds  of  the  West,  O  winds 

with  the  wings  of  the  dove,  522. 
I  come  from  nothing  ;  but  from  where,  538. 
I  come  to  visit  thee  agen,  8. 
I  come  your  sin-rid  souls  to  shrive,  517. 
I  dance  and  dance !     Another  faun,  520. 
I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be,  313. 
I  do  not  dread  an  alter'd  heart,  295. 
I  dream'd  I  saw  a  little  brook,  267. 
I  dream'd  that  I  woke  from  a  dream,  164. 
I  drew  it  from  its  china  tomb,  483. 
If  a  leaf  rustled,  she  would  start,  587. 
If  all  the  harm  that  women  have  done,  571. 
If  all  the  world  were  right,  602. 
If  I  could  paint  you,  friend,  as  you  stand  there, 

542. 
If  I  could  trust  mine  own  self  with  your  fate, 

378. 

If  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs,  71. 
If  I  forswear  the  art  divine,  104. 
If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange,  133. 
If  in  the  years  that  come  such  things  should  be, 

536. 

If  it  were  only  a  dream,  300. 
If  love  were  what  the  rose  is,  417. 
If  not  now  soft  airs  may  blow,  569. 
If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers,  351. 
If  only  a  single  rose  is  left,  507. 
If  only  in  dreams  may  man  be  fully  blest,  270. 
I  found  a  flower  in  a  desolate  plot,  66. 
I  found  him  openly  wearing  her  token,  517. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


717 


If  she  be  made  of  white  and  red,  592. 

If  she  but  knew  that  I  am  weeping-,  442. 

If  the  butterfly  courted  the  bee,  476. 

If  there  be  any  one  can  take  my  place,  378. 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell,  37. 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart,  38. 

If  Transmigration  e'er  compel,  473. 

If  you  be  that  May  Margaret,  516. 

I  gave  my  life  for  thee,  183. 

I  give  my  soldier-boy  a  blade,  55. 

1  had  a  true-love,  none  so  dear,  415. 

I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret-room,  139. 

I  have  a  strain  of  a  departed  bard,  166. 

I  have  been  here  before,  397. 

I  have  lov'd  flowers  that  fade,  438. 

I  have  stay'd   too  long  from  your  grave,   it 

seems,  441. 

I  have  subdued  at  last  the  will  to  live,  258. 
I  have  two  sons,  wife,  283. 
I  have  wept  a  million  tears,  006. 
I  heard  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing-,  134. 
I  heard  the  dogs  howl  in  the  moonlight  night, 

318. 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus  say,  176. 
I  hear  the  bells  at  eventide,  671. 
I  hear  the  low  wind  wash  the  softening  snow, 

650. 

I  held  her  hand,  the  pledge  of  bliss,  13. 
I  know  not  how  to  call  you  light,  231. 
I  know  not  of  what  we  ponder'd,  469. 
I  know  that  these  poor  rags  of  womanhood, 

296. 

I  learn'd  his  greatness  first  at  Lavington,  70. 
I  leave  thee,  beauteous  Italy  !  no  more,  11. 
I  lift  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly,  131. 
I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare,  492. 
I  listen'd  to  the  music  broad  and  deep,  445. 
I  liv'd  with  visions  for  my  company,  133. 
I  lov'd  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone,  11. 
I  love  my  Lady  ;  she  is  very  fair,  391. 
I  'm  a  bird  that 's  free,  27. 
I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary,  93. 
I  must  not  think  of  thee  ;  and,  tired  yet  strong, 

539. 
In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and 

highland,  432. 

In  after  days  when  grasses  high,  491. 
In  Carnival  we  were,  and  supp'd  that  night, 

252. 

In  Childhood's  unsuspicious  hours,  150. 
In  dim  green  depths  rot  ing-ot-laden  ships,  505. 
I  never  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away,  132. 
I  never  look'd  that  he  should  live  so  long,  25. 
In  green  old  gardens,  hidden  away,  296. 
in  his  own  image  the  Creator  made,  16. 
In  "aid  whirl  of  the  dance  of  Time  ye  start,  565. 
in  praise  of  little  children  I  will  say,  501. 
In  ruling  well  what  guerdon  ?    Life  runs  low, 

417. 
In  silence,  and  at  night,  the  Conscience  feels, 

42. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long,  152. 
In  sunny  girlhood's  vernal  life,  471 . 
'In  teacup-times  "  !    The  style  of  dress,  484. 
In  the  early  morning-shine,  386. 
In  the  earth --the  earth  —  thou  shalt  be  laid, 

153. 


In  the  golden  morning  of  the  world,  213. 

In  the  heart  of  the  white  summer  mist  lay  a 
green  little  piece  of  the  world,  500. 

In  the  high  turret  chamber  sat  the  sage,  493. 

In  the  royal  path  came  maidens  rob'd,  24. 

In  these  restrained  and  careful  times,  482. 

In  the  still  air  the  music  lies  unheard,  177. 

In  the  white-flower'd  hawthorn  brake,  410. 

In  the  wild  autumn  weather,  when  Jhe  rain 
was  on  the  sea,  560. 

In  this  May-month,  by  grace  of  heaven,  things 
_  shoot  a_pace,  439. 

In  this  red  wine,  where  Memory's  eyes,  270. 
In  thy  white  bosom  Love  is  laid,  569. 
In  torrid  heats  of  late  July,  496. 

Into  the  Devil  tavern,  321. 

I  rested  on  the  breezy  height,  668. 

I  rise  in  the  dawn,  and  I  kneel  and  blow,  605. 

I  said  farewell,  637. 

I  sat  at  Berne,  and  watched  the  chain,  516. 

I  sat  beside  the  streamlet,  328. 

I  sat  unsphering  Plato  ere  I  slept,  274. 

I  sat  upon  a  windy  mountain  height,  552. 

I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd-maiden,  242. 

I  saw  a  new  world  in  my  dream,  477. 

I  saw  a  poor  old  woman  on  the  bench,  266, 

I  saw  in  dreams  a  mighty  multitude,  445. 

I  saw,  I  saw  the  lovely  child,  293. 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn,  119. 

I  saw  old  Time,  destroyer  of  mankind,  72. 

I  saw  Time  in  his  workshop  carving  faces,  656. 

I  see  him  sit,  wild-eyed,  alone,  546. 

I  see  thee  pine  like  her  in  golden  story,  269. 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart,  346. 

I  sent  my  Soul  through  the  invisible,  342. 

I  sit  beside  my  darling's  grave,  328. 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?    If  I  lay  here  dead,  132. 

Is  it  not  better  at  an  early  hour,  16. 

"  Is  n't  this  Joseph's  son  ?  "  —  ay,  it  is  He,  510. 

I  sought  to  hold  her,  but  within  her  eyes,  537. 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he,  349. 

Is  this  the  man  by  whose  decree  abide,  564. 

I  still  keep  open  Memory's  chamber:  still,  256. 

I  stood  to  hear  that  bold,  521. 

I  strove  with  none,   for  none  was  worth  my 

strife,  15. 

Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men,  433. 
I  thank  all  who  have  lov'd  me  in  their  hearts,  133. 
It  hardly  seems  that  he  is  dead,  585. 
I  think  a  stormless  night-time  shall  ensue,  SOL 
I  think  on  thee  in  the  night,  75. 
I  thought  it  was  the  little  bed.  319. 
I  thought  of  death  beside  the  lonely  sea,  671. 
I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung,  131. 
It  is  buried  and  done  with,  274. 
It  is  the  season  now  to  go,  524. 
It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king,  196. 
It  may  be  we  shall  know  in  the  hereafter,  611. 
It  once  might  have  been,  once  only,  350. 
I  too  remember,  in  the  after  years,  189. 
Its  edges  foamed  with  amethyst  and  rose,  606- 
Its  masts  of  might,  its  sails  so  free,  156. 
It  was  a  day  of  sun  and  rain,  (501. 
It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  delight 

193. 

It  was  not  in  the  winter,  116. 
It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night,  143. 


718 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


I^ve  taught  thee  Love's  sweet  lesson  o'er,  18. 

I,  Virgin  of  the  Snows,  have  liv'd,  253. 

I  wadna  gi'e  my  ain  wife,  79. 

I  wander  d  by  the  brook-side,  66. 

I  was  an  English  shell,  583. 

I  was  a  wandering  sheep,  175. 

I  watch'd  her  as  she  stoop'd  to  pluck,  470. 

I  went  a  roaming  through  the  woods  alone,  273. 

I  will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie,  115. 

I  will  ifbt  let  thee  go,  437. 

I  will  not  rail,  or  grieve  when  torpid  eld,  332. 

I  worship  thee,  sweet  will  of  God !  178. 

I  would  I  had  thy  courage,  dear,  to  face,  491. 

I  would  not,  could  I,  make  thy  life  as  mine, 

442. 

1  would  not  give  my  Irish  wife,  103. 
I  would  that  we  were,  my  beloved,  white  birds 

on  the  foam  of  the  sea,  604. 
I  write.     He  sits  beside  my  chair,  501. 
I  write.    My  mother  was  a  Florentine,  139. 
I  wrought  them  like  a  targe  of  hammered  gold, 

505. 

Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken,  174. 
Joy  that 's  half  too  keen  and  true,  465. 
Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea,  169. 
Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us,  350. 
Juxtaposition,  in  fine ;  and  what  is  juxtaposi- 
tion ?  217. 

Kathleen  Mavourneen  !  the  gray  dawn  is  break- 
ing, 301. 

Keen  was  the  air,  the  sky  was  very  light,  444. 
Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King,  343. 
King  Charles,  and  who  '11  do  him  right  now,  344. 

Lady  Alice,  Lady  Louise,  403. 
Lady  and  gentlemen  fays,  come  buy  !  18. 
Lady  Anne  Dewhurst  on  a  crimson  couch,  236. 
Last   April,   when    the   winds  had    lost  their 

chill,  532. 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs,  302. 
Last  night  the  nightingale  waked  me,  516. 
Lay  me  low,  my  work  is  done,  621. 
Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

59. 

Lead  us,  heavenly  Father,  lead  us,  170. 
Leave  me  a  little  while  alone,  263. 
Let  me  at  last  be  laid,  256. 
Let  me  be  with  thee  where  thou  art,  169. 
Let  time  and  chance  combine,  combine,  80. 
Level  with  the  summit  of  that  eastern  mount,  33. 
Lie  still,  old  Dane,  below  thy  heap,  241. 
Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away,  194. 
Life  's  not  our  own,  —  't  is  but  a  loan,  76. 
Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words,  and  yet, 

227. 
Light  words    they  were,   and  lightly,    falsely 

said,  214. 
Like  a  huge  Python,  winding  round  and  round, 

545. 

Like  a  musician  that  with  flying  finger,  231. 
Like  apple-blossom,  white  and  red,  336. 
Like  crown'd  athlete  that  in  a  race  has  run, 

276. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain,  198. 
Lily  on  liquid  roses  floating,  72. 


Little  harp,  at  thy  cry,  581. 

Little  Lettice  is  dead,  they  say,  520. 

Lo,  as  some  bard  on  isles  of  the  Aegean,  291. 

Lo,  I  am  weary  of  all,  534. 

Long  ago,  on  a  bright  spring  day,  533. 

Long  night  succeeds  thy  little  day,  47. 

Long  years  their  cabin  stood,  147. 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes,  314. 

Look   in  my  face ;   my  name  is  Alight-have' 

been,  397. 

Lord  Caesar,  when  you  sternly  wrote,  583. 
Lord,  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs,  175. 
Lord,  in  thy  name  thy  servants  plead,  172. 
Loud  roared  the  tempest,  313. 
Love,  by  that  loosened  hair,  666. 
Love  held  a  harp  between  his  hands,  and,  lo  ! 

'442. 
Love  in  my  heart :  oh,  heart  of  me,  heart  of 

me !  549. 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay !  94. 
Love's    priestess,   mad  with  pain  and  joy  of 

song,  427. 

Love  took  my  life  and  thrill'd  it,  257. 
Love  we  the  warmth  and  light  of  tropic  lands, 

552. 

Lo,  what  a  golden  day  it  is,  435. 
Lo  !  where  the  four  mimosas  blend  their  shade, 

16. 
Low,  like  another's,   lies  the  laurelled  head, 

565. 

Maidens,  kilt  your  skirts  and  go,  556. 

Make  me  over,  Mother  April,  663. 

Make  thyself  known,  Sibyl,  or  let  despair,  294. 

Make   way,   my  lords !    for   Death  now   once 

again,  504. 

Man  is  permitted  much,  59. 
Many  a  hearth  upon  our  dark  globe  sighs  after 

many  a  vanish'd  face,  211. 
Many  love  music  but  for  music's  sake,  12. 
Marian  Drury,  Marian  Drury,  662. 
Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning,  95. 
Melpomene  among  her  livid  people,  375. 
Methinks  the  soul  within  the  body  held,  126. 
Methought,  as  I  beheld  the  rookery  pass,  192. 
Methought  the  stars  were  blinking  bright,  326. 
Mid  April  seemed  like  some   November  day, 

497. 
Mistress  of  gods  and  men  !  I  have  been  thine, 

146. 

Monsieur  the  Cnr4  down  the  street,  486. 
Mother,  I  cannot  rr;isd  my  wheel,  12. 
Mother  wept,  and  father  sigh'd,  329. 
Move  me  that  jasmine  further  from  the  bed, 

463. 

Mowers,  weary  and  brown,  and  blithe,  498. 
Music,  music  hath  its  sway,  636. 
My  body  sleeps  :  my  heart  awakes,  380. 
My  days  are  full  of  pleasant  memories,  266. 
My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you, 

311. 

My  Fair,  no  beauty  of  thine  will  last,  538. 
My  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 

355. 

My  God  (oh,  let  me  call  thee  mine,  181. 
My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men,  197. 
My  hero  is  na  deck'd  wi'  gowd,  151. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 


719 


My  hopes  retire  ;  my  wishes  as  before,  15. 

My  life  ebbs  from  me  —  I  must  die,  294. 

My  little  boy  at  Christmas-tide,  262. 

My  little  dear,  so  fast  asleep,  602. 

My  little  love,  do  you  remember,  382. 

My  little  son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes, 

235. 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy  's  the  son  of  an  Earl,  468. 
My  love  and  I  among  the  mountains  strayed, 

555. 

My  Love  dwelt  in  a  Northern  land.  497. 
My  love  he  went  to  Burdon  Fair,  277. 
My  masters  twain  made  me  a  bed,  646. 
My  roof  is  hardly  picturesque,  494. 
My  soul,  asleep  between  its  body-throes,  301. 
My  times  are  in  thy  hand  !  180. 

Naiads,  and  ye  pastures  cold,  498. 
Nancy  Dawson,  Nancy  Dawson,  592. 
Nature,  a  jealous  mistress,  laid  him  low,  368. 
Nature  and  he  went  ever  hand  in  hand,  584. 
Nay,  Death,  thou  art  a  shadow  !  Even  as  light, 

273. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee,  127. 
Near  where  yonder  evening  star,  556. 
News  to  the  king,  good  news  for  all,  462. 
Nigh  one  year  ago,  161. 
Nineteen  !  of  years  a  pleasant  number,  461. 
No  coward  soul  is  mine,  154. 
No,  my  own  love  of  other  years  !  14. 
None  ever  climbed  to  mountain  height  of  song, 

672. 
Nor  force  nor  fraud  shall  sunder  us !    0  ye, 

368. 

No  sleep  like  hers,  no  rest,  582. 
Not  a  sound  disturbs  the  air,  615. 
Not  greatly  mov'd  with  awe  am  I,  236. 
Not  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee,  396. 
Not  'mid  the  thunder  of  the  battle  guns,»615. 
Not  only  that  thy  puissant  arm  could  bind,  213. 
Not  on  the  neck  of  prince  or  hound,  586. 
Not  yet,  dear  love,  not  yet :  the  sun  is  high ; 

612. 
Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  hosts,  from  whom  all 

glories  are,  29. 

Now  hands  to  seed-sheet,  boys  !  80. 
Now  has  the  lingering  month  at  last  gone  by, 

407. 

Now  heap  the  branchy  barriers  up,  652. 
Now,  sitting  by  her  side,  worn  out  with  weep- 
ing, 285. 

Now  the  day  is  over,  183. 
Now  the  rite  is  duly  done,  49. 
Now  this  is  the  Law  of  the  Jungle  —  as  old  and 

as  true  as  the  sky,  599. 

O  babbling  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear,  488. 

O  bear  him  where  the  rain  can  fall,  111. 

O  blessed  Dead  !  beyond  all  earthly  pains,  148. 

O  bonnie  bird,  that  in  the  brake,  exultant,  dost 
prepare  thee,  529. 

O  brothers,  who  must  ache  and  stoop,  586. 

O  Child  of  Nations,  giant-limbed.  649. 

Och  !  the  Coronation  !  what  celebration,  52. 

O  Deep  of  Heaven,  't  is  thou  alone  art  bound- 
less, 651. 

O'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song,  604. 


0  d'  you  hear  the  seas  complainin',  and  com- 

plainin',  whilst  it 's  raiuin'  ?  609. 
Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are,  142. 
Of  all  the  wives  as  e'er  you  know,  508. 
Of  Heaven  or  Hell  I  have  no  power  to  sing,  404. 
O,  for  the  times  which  were,  382. 
0  friend,  like  some  cold  wind  to-day,  536. 
Often  rebuk'd,  yet  always  back  returning,  154. 
Oh,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green,  307. 
Oh,  aged  Time  !  how  far,  and  long,  67. 
Oh,  Bisham  Banks  are  fresh  and  fair,  471. 
Oh,  East  is  East,  and  West  is  West,  and  never 

the  twain  shall  meet,  596. 
Oh,  England  is  a  pleasant  place  for  them  that 's 

rich  and  high,  310. 
Oh,  fill  me  flagons  full  and  fair,  561. 
Oh  !  had  you  eyes,  but  eyes  that  move,  591. 
Oh,  happy,  happy  maid,  366. 
Oh  !  ignorant  boy,  it  is  the  secret  hour,  23. 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God,  179. 
Oh,  I  wad  like  to  ken  —  to  the  beggar-wife  says 

I,  525. 
Oh,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it 's  you  I  love  the 

best,  317. 

Oh,  many  a  leaf  will  fall  to-night,  271 . 
0  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  blest  upon  earth, 

383. 

Oh  !  that  we  two  were  Maying,  308. 
Oh,  there  's  mony  a  gate  eawt  ov  eawr  teawn- 

end,  109. 
Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April 's  there, 

351. 
Oh,  wha  hae  ye  brought  us  hame  now,  my  brave 

lord,  83. 

Oh,  what  shall  be  the  burden  of  our  rhyme,  434. 
Oh  !  where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads,  73. 
Oh  !  wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph  from 

the  north,  27. 

Oh  !  why  left  I  my  hame  ?  81. 
Oh,  ye  wild  waves,  shoreward  dashing,  628. 
Old  England's  sous  are  English  yet,  461. 
Old  things  need  not  be  therefore  true,  218. 
O  Life  !  that  mystery  that  no  man  knows,  575. 
O  long  ago,  when  Faery-land,  254. 
O  Lord  of  heaven,  and  earth,  and  sea  !  175. 
O  Lords  !  0  rulers  of  the  nation  !  152. 
O  Lord,  thy  wing  outspread,  181. 
0  Love,  if  you  were  here,  447. 
O  Love  !  thou  makest  all  things  even,  127. 
O  Love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine,  205. 
O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home,  309. 
O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible,  155. 
O  !  Meary,  when  the  zun  went  down,  106. 
O  Merop&  !  and  where  art  thou,  31. 
O  monstrous,  dead,  unprofitable  world,  221. 
O  mother,  mother,  I  swept  the  hearth,  I  set  his 

chair  and  the  white  board  spread,  610. 
O  my  Dark  Rosaleen,  91. 
On  a  starr'd  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose,  374. 
On  Bellosguardo,  when  the  year  was  young, 

579. 

On  Calais  Sands  the  gray  began,  500. 
Once,  from  the  parapet  of  gems  and  glow,  505. 
Once  in  a  golden  hour,  206. 
Once  ye  were  happy,  once  by  many  a  shore,  661 
One  asked  of  Regret,  593. 
One  face  alone,  one  face  alone,  60. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 


One  moment  the  boy,  as  he  wander' d  by  night, 

299. 

One  more  unfortunate,  122. 
One  only  rose  our  village  maiden  wore,  246. 
On  gossamer  nights  when  the  moon  is  low,  608. 
On  Helen's  heart  the  day  were  night,  585. 
Only  a  touch,  and  nothing  more,  316. 
On  me  and  on  my  children,  455. 
On  other  fields  and  other  scenes  the  morn,  650. 
On  shores  of  Sicily  a  shape  of  Greece,  541. 
On  through  the  Libyan  sand,  297. 
O  Paradise,  O  Paradise,  179. 
O  pensive,  tender  maid,  downcast  and  shy,  409. 
Ope  your  doors  and  take  me  in,  675. 
Or  else  I  sat  on  in  my  chamber  green,  139. 
O  saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ?  116. 
O  shepherds  !  take  my  crook  from  me,  633. 
0  singer  of  the  field  and  fold,  488. 
O  somewhere,  somewhere,  God  unknown,  292. 
O  sons  of  men,  that  toil,  and  love  with  tears, 

440. 

O  supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return,  141. 
O  thou  that  cleavest  heaven,  535. 
O  thou  to  whom,  athwart  the  perished  days, 

530. 

0  unhatch'd  Bird,  so  high  preferr'd,  472. 
Our  bark  is  on  the  waters :  wide  around,  40. 
Our  England's  heart  is  sound  as  oak,  148. 
"  Our  little  babe,"  each  said,  "  shall  be,  594. 
Our  little  bird  in  his  full  day  of  health,  191. 
Our  night  repast  was  ended :  quietness,  145. 
Ours  all  are  marble  halls,  157. 
Out  from  the  City's  dust  and  roar,  486. 
Out  of  the  frozen  earth  below,  389. 
Out  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the 

sea  without  shore  is,  417. 
Out  of  the  uttermost  ridge  of  dusk,  where  the 

dark  and  the  day  are  mingled,  607. 
Out  of  this  town  there  riseth  a  high  hill,  400. 
Outside  the  village,  by  the  public  road,  220. 
Over  his  millions  Death  has  lawful  power,  13. 
Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went,  343. 
O  wanderer  in  the  southern  weather,  603. 
Owd  Finder  were  a  rackless  foo,  110. 
O  when  the  half-light  weaves,  576. 
O  where  do  you  go,  and  what 's  your  will,  580. 
O  Wind  of  the  Mountain,  Wind  of  the  Moun- 
tain, hear !  213. 
O  wind,  thou  hast  thy  kingdom  in  the  trees, 

520. 
O  youth  whose  hope  is  high,  439. 

Pardon  the  faults  in  me,  376. 

Passing  feet  pause,  as  they  pass,  266. 

Passion  the  fathomless  spring,  and  words  the 

precipitate  waters,  331. 
Peace  !  what  do  tears  avail  ?  20. 
Pitch  here  the  tent,  while  the  old  horse  grazes, 

371. 

Play  nje  a  march,  low-toii'd  and  slow,  277. 
Pleasures  lie  thickest  where  no  pleasures  seem, 

126. 

Plunged  in  night,  I  sit  alone,  656. 
Poets  tire  singing  the  whole  world  over,  334. 
Poor  old  pilgrim  Misery,  39. 
Poor  -vvither'd  rose  and  dry,  437. 
Princess  of  pretty  pets,  472. 


Proud  and  lowly,  beggar  and  lord,  508. 
Proud  word  you  never   spoke,   but  you  will 
speak,  14. 

Quick  gleam,  that  ridest  on  the  gossamer !  193. 
Quoth  tongue  of  neither  maid  nor  wife,  26. 

Rachel,  the  beautiful  (as  she  was  call'd),  22. 

Reign  on,  majestic  Ville  Marie,  649. 

Remain,  ah  not  in  youth  alone,  13. 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away,  376. 

Rest  here,  at  last,  447. 

Rhaicos  was  born  amid  the  hills  wherefrom,  3, 

Riches  I  hold  in  light  esteem,  153. 

Ride  on  !  ride  on  in  majesty  !  171. 

Righ  Shemus  he  has  gone  to  France,  and  left 

his  crown  behind,  KK). 

Rise  I    Sleep  no  more  !  'T  is  a  noble  morn,  19. 
Rise  up,  my  song  !  stretch  forth  thy  wings  and 

fly,  442. 

Roll  on,  and  with  thy  rolling  crust,  300. 
Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea,  354. 
Row  me  o'er  the  strait,  Douglas  Gordon,  509. 

Sad  is  my  lot ;  among  the  shining  spheres,  231. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going,  69. 

Say,  did  his  sisters  wonder  what  could  Joseph 

see,  236. 

Say,  fair  maids,  maying,  496. 
Scnelynlaw  Tower  is  fair  on  the  brae,  323. 
Sea-birds  are  asleep,  260. 
Seamen  three  !  what  men  be  ye  ?  47. 
Seeds  with  wings,  between  earth  and  sky,  462. 
Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark,  70. 
Seems  not  our  breathing  light,  293. 
See  what  a  lovely  shell,  208. 
Set  in  this  stormy  Northern  sea,  549. 
Seven  weeks  of  sea,  and  twice  seven  days  of 

•storm,  492. 

Shakespeare,  thy  legacy  of  peerless  song,  545. 
Shall    mine    eyes    behold    thy    glory,    0    my 

country,  537. 

Shall  we  not  weary  in  the  windless  days,  574. 
She  dared  not  wait  my  coming,  and  shall  look, 

517. 
She  gave  her  life  to  love.      She  never  knew, 

507. 

She  has  a  beauty  of  her  own,  632. 
She  has  a  primrose  at  her  breast,  527. 
She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view,  57. 
She  is  not  yet,  but  he  whose  ear,  621. 
She  leads  me  on  through  storm  and  calm,  300. 
She  lived  where  the  mountains  go  down  to  the 

sea,  662. 

She  passes  in  her  beauty  bright,  278. 
She  sat  and  wept  beside  His  feet ;  the  weight, 

58. 

She  sat  beside  the  mountain  springs,  329. 
She  sits  beneath  the  elder-tree,  547. 
She  stands,  a  thousand-wintered  tree,  614. 
She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn,  119. 
She  turn'd  the  fair  page  with  her  fairer  hand, 

368. 

She  wanders  in  the  April  woods,  265. 
She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses,  73. 
Ship,  to  the  roadstead  rolled,  488. 
Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair,  155. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


721 


Siccine  separat  amara  mprs,  554. 

Sigh  his  name  into  the  night,  569. 

Silence.     A  while  ago,  502. 

Sing,  I  pray,  a  little  song,  21. 

Sing  the  song  of  wave-worn  Coogee,  Coogee  in 

the  distance  white,  625. 
Singer  of  songs,  do  you  know  that  your  youth  is 

flying  ?  668. 

Sister  Simplicitie,  sing,  sing  a  song  to  me,  370. 
Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count,  21. 
Sleep  that  like  the  couched  dove,  91. 
So,  Freedom,  thy  great  quarrel  may  we  serve, 

148. 

Softly  sinking  through  the  snow,  445. 
So  I  arm  thee  for  the  final  night,  578. 
So  long  he  rode  he  drew  anigh,  408. 
Some  clerks  aver  that  as  the  tree  doth  fall,  384. 
Some  years  ago,  ere  time  and  taste,  48. 
So  sweet  love  seem'd  that  April  morn,  439. 
Soulless,  colorless   strain,   thy   words   are   the 

words  of  wisdom,  331. 
So  when  the  old  delight  is  born  anew,  292. 
Spare  all  who  yield  ;  alas,  that  we  must  pierce, 

539. 

Speak,  quiet  lips,  and  utter  forth  my  fate,  532. 
Speed  on,  speed  on,  good  master,  634. 
Spirit  of  Spring,  thy  coverlet  of  snow,  611. 
Spirit  of  Twilight,  through  your  folded  wings, 

612. 

Spring  it  is  cheery,  117. 
Spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter,  112. 
Stand  close  around,  ye  Stygian  set,  8. 
Standing  on  tiptoe  ever  since  my  youth,  646. 
Star  Sirius  and  the  Pole  Star  dwell  afar,  379. 
Still  farther  would  I  fly,  my  child,  (»16. 
Still  I  am  patient,  tho'  you  're  merciless,  23. 
Still  more,  still  more  :  I  feel  the  demon  move, 

635. 

Stop,  mortal !     Here  thy  brother  lies,  112. 
Summer  dieth :  —  o'er  his  bier,  375. 
Sunset  and  evening  star,  212. 
Surrounded  by  unnumber'd  foes,  1(56. 
Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low,  199. 
Sweetest  sweets  that  time  hath  rifled,  568. 
Sweet  in  her  green  dell  the  flower  of  beauty 

slumbers,  17. 
Sweet   singer  of   the   Spring,   when   the   new 

world,  257. 

Take  as  gold  this  old  tradition,  527. 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  earth,  123. 

Take  back  your  suit,  416. 

Take  me,  Mother  Earth,  to  thy  cold  breast,  58. 

Take  the  world  as  it  is  !  —  there  are  good  and 

bad  in  it,  76. 

Tears  for  my  lady  dead,  498. 
Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 

199. 

Fell  me  not  of  morrows,  sweet,  463. 
Tell  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is,  398. 
Tell  me,  what  is  a  poet's  thought  ?  22. 
Tell  me,  ye  winged  winds,  87. 
Thaisa  fair,  under  the  cold  sea  lying,  462. 
Thanks,  thanks!      With  the  Muse  is  always 

love  and  light,  159. 

Tha  'rt  welcome,  little  bonny  brid,  110. 
That 's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall,  344. 


That  was  a  brave  old  epoch,  648. 

The  ancient  memories  buried  lie,  434. 

The  auld  wife  sat  at  her  ivied  door,  469. 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht,  502. 

The  baron  hath  the  landward  park,  the  fisher 

hath  the  sea,  74. 

The  Barons  bold  on  Runnymede,  112. 
The  bay  is  set  with  ashy  sails,  669. 
The  bees  about  the  Linden-tree,  315. 
The  bird's  song,  the  sun,  and  the  wind,  653. 
The  blessed  damozel  lean'd  out,  31)2. 
The  Books  say  well,  my  Brothers !    each  man's 

life,  247. 

The  breaths  of  kissing  night  and  day,  570. 
The  broken  moon  lay  in  the  autumn  sky,  168. 
The  buds  awake  at  touch  of  Spring,  545. 
The  Bulbul  wail'd,  "  Oh,  Rose !    all  night  1 

sing,  250. 

The  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower,  330. 
The  Chancellor  mused  as  he  nibbled  his  pen, 

631. 
The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  mood, 

396. 

The  characters  of  great  and  small,  467. 
The  chime  of  a  bell  of  gold,  436. 
The  churchyard  leans  to  the  sea  with  its  dead, 

444. 

The  commissioner  bet  me  a  pony  —  I  won,  616. 
The  crab,  the  bullace,  and  the  sloe,  264. 
The  crimson  leafage  fires  the  lawn,  292. 
The  curtain  on  the  grouping  dancers  falls,  607. 
The  curtains   were  half  drawn,  the  floor  was 

swept,  37(5. 
The  day  was  lingering  in  the  pale  northwest, 

637. 
The  dead  abide  with  us  !     Though  stark  and 

cold,  522. 

The  doors  are  shut,  the  windows  fast,  654. 
The  dreamy  rhymer's  measur'd  snore,  12. 
The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine,  109. 
The  East  was  crowned  with  snow-cold  bloom, 

605. 

The  fair  varieties  of  earth,  113. 
The  flame-wing'd  seraph  spake  a  word,  267. 
The  fray  began  at  the  middle-gate,  558. 
The  frost  will  bite  us  soon,  558. 
The  garden  's  passed.     'T  is  forest  now,  667. 
The  glint  of  steel,  the  gleam  of  brocade,  6(57. 
The  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land,  354. 
The  great  soft  downy  snow  storm  like  a  cloak, 

676. 

The  ground  I  walk'd  on  felt  like  air,  259. 
The  hollow   sea-shell,    which   for   years   hath 

s_tood,  505. 

The  Iris  was  yellow,  the  moon  was  pale,  521. 
The  irresponsive  silence  of  the  land,  379. 
The  Jackdaw  sat  on  the  Cardinal's  chair  !  50. 
The  King  with  all  his  kingly  train,  61. 
The  ladies  of  St.  James's,  489. 
The  Ladies  rose.    I  held  the  door,  233.    , 
The  lake  comes  throbbing  in  with  voice  of  pain, 

655. 

The  lark  above  our  heads  doth  know,  533. 
The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky,  167. 
The  last  of  England !    O'er  the  sea,  my  dear, 

390. 
The  linnet  in  the  rocky  dells,  153. 


722 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


The  lover  of  child  Marjory,  662. 

The  loves  that  doubted,  the  loves   that   dis- 
sembled, 555. 

The  men  of  learning  say  she  must,  392. 

The  merry-go-round,  the  merry-go-round,  the 
merry-go-round  at  Fowey,  261. 

The  monument  outlasting  bronze,  239. 

The  moon-white  waters  wash  and  leap,  547. 

The  moorland  waste  lay  hushed  in  the  dusk  of 
the  second  day,  572. 

The  Mother  of  the  Muses,  we  are  taught,  16. 

The  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she  hears, 
396. 

The  mountain  peaks  put  on  their  hoods,  640. 

The  mountain  sheep  are  sweeter,  47. 

The  music  had  the  heat  of  blood,  601. 

The  Musmee  has  brown  velvet  eyes,  251. 

The  nest  is  built,  the  song  hath  ceas'd,  150. 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes,  533. 

The  Northern  Lights  are  flashing,  633. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
208. 

Theocritus !  Theocritus !  ah,  thou  hadst  plea- 
sant dreams,  49. 

The  odor  of  a  rose  :  light  of  a  star,  276. 

The  old  mayor  climb'd  the  belfry  tower,  324. 

The  old  men  sat  with  hats  pull'd  down,  321. 

The  orb  I  like  is  not  the  one,  77. 

The  play  is  done  —  the  curtain  drops,  306. 

The  Poem  of  the  Universe,  153. 

The  poet  stood  in  the  sombre  town,  511. 

The  point  is  turned  ;  the  twilight  shadow  fills, 
659. 

The  poplars  and  the  ancient  elms,  514. 

The  pouring  music,  soft  and  strong,  292. 

The  primrwose  in  the  sheade  do  blow,  107. 

There  be   the  greyhounds !  lo'k !   an'  there 's 
the  heare  !  107. 

There  came  a  soul  to  the  gate  of  Heaven,  237. 

The  red  tiled  towers  of  the  old  Chateau,  667. 

There  falls  with  every  wedding  chime,  12. 

There  is  a  book,  who  runs  may  read,  171. 

There  is  a  flower  I  wish  to  wear,  16. 

There  is  a  green  hill  far  away,  182. 

There  is  an  Isle  beyond  our  ken,  547. 

There  is  a  safe  and  secret  place,  174. 

There  is  a  singing  in  the  summer  air,  283. 

There  is  a  soul  above  the  soul  of  each,  400. 

There  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its  name,  215. 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  though  none  hear, 
13. 

There  is  no  land  like  England,  211. 

There  is  no  laughter  .in  the  natural  world,  491. 

There  is  no  mood,  no  heart-throb  fugitive,  275. 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls,  194. 

There  lies  a  little  city  leagues  away,  651. 

There  never  were  such  radiant  noons,  564. 
There  's  a  joy  without  canker  or  cark,  496. 

There  the  moon  leans  out  and  blesses,  532. 

There  they  are,  my  fifty  men  and  women,  359. 

There  was  a  gather' d  stillness  in  the  room,  146. 
There  was  a  lady  liv'd  at  Leith,  54. 
There  was  a  time,  so  ancient  records  tell,  25. 
There  were  four  of  us  about  that  bed,  403. 
There  were  ninety  and  nine  that  safely  lay, 

182. 
There  were  three  young  maids  of  Lee,  509. 


The  roar  of  Niagara  dies  away,  255. 

The  rose  is  weeping  for  her  love,  161. 

The  rose  thou  gav'st  at  parting,  77. 

The  rosy  musk-mallow  blooms  where  the  south 

wind  blows,  609. 
The  ruddy  sunset  lies,  670. 
The  sea  is  calm  to-night,  226. 
The  sea !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  !  19. 
These  dreary  hours  of  hopeless  gloom,  158. 
These  little  Songs,  319. 
The  skies  have  sunk,  and  hid  the  upper  snow, 

217. 

The  Sonnet  is  a  fruit  which  long  hath  slept,  275. 
The  Sonnet  is  a  world,  where  feelings  caught, 

275. 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky,  57. 
The  spell  of  Age  is  over  all,  668. 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls,  199. 
The  splendor  of  the  kindling  day,  378. 
The  Spring  will  come  again,  dear  friends,  lf>2. 
The  stream  was  smooth  as  glass,  we  said,  331. 
The  summer  sun  is  falling  soft  on  Carbery's 

hundred  isles,  97. 
The  sunset  in  the  rosy  west,  669. 
The  sun  shines  on  the  chamber  wall,  322. 
The  sun  strikes,  through  the  windows,  up  the 

floor,  135. 

The  swallow,  bonny  birdie,  comes  sharp  twit- 
tering o'er  the  sea,  83. 
The  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer,  664. 
The  tale  was  this,  2(i. 
The  thing  is  but  a  statue  after  all,  457. 
The  time  shall  come  when  wrong  shall  end,  127. 
The  tomb  of  God  before  us,  308. 
The  tongue  of  England,  that  which  myriads,  12. 
The  training-ship  Eurydice,  391. 
The  unfathomable  sea,  and  time,  and  tears,  524. 
The  vale  of  Tempe  had  in  vain  been  fair,  57. 
The  victor  stood  beside  the  spoil,  and  by  the 

grinning  dead,  335. 

The  villeins  clustered  round  the  bowl,  641. 
The  voice  that  breath'd  o'er  Eden,  172. 
The  wattles  were  sweet  with  September's  rain, 

630. 
The  white  blossom 's  off  the  bog  and  the  leaves 

are  of?  the  trees,  506. 

The  wind  flapp'd  loose,  the  wind  was  still,  398. 
The  wind  of  death  that  softly  blows,  675. 
The  wisest  of  the  wise,  15. 
The  world,  not  hush'd,  lay  as  in  trance,  337. 
They  are  waiting  on  the  shore,  260. 
They  call  her  fair.     I  do  not  know,  149. 
The  year  's  at  the  spring,  348. 
They  found  it  in  her  hollow  marble  bed,  563. 
They  hasten,  still  they  hasten,  655. 
They  look'd  on  each  other  and  spake  not,  410. 
They  mock'd  the  Sovereign  of  Ghaznm :    one 

saith,  250. 
They  rous'd  him  with    muffins  —  they  rous'd 

him  with  ice,  478. 
They  say  that  Pity  in  Love's  service  dwells, 

371. 
They  say  that  thou  wert  lovely  on  thy  bier, 

56. 

They  shot  young  Windebank  just  here,  593. 
They  told  me,  Heracleitus,  they  told  me  you 

were  dead,  232. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


723 


They  told  me  in  their  shadowy  phrase,  41. 

They  went  to  sea  in  a  sieve,  they  did,  475. 

They  were  islanders,  our  fathers  were,  656. 

Thick  rise  the  spear-shafts  o'er  the  hind,  413. 

This  case  befell  at  four  of  the  clock,  474. 

This  I  got  on  the  day  that  Goring,  320. 

This  infant  world  has  taken  long  to  make !  164. 

This  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to,  364. 

This  is  her  picture  as  she  was,  394. 

This  is  the  convent  where  they  tend  the  sick, 

560. 

This  is  the  glamour  of  the  world  antique,  434. 
This  is  the  room  to  which  she  came  that  day, 

446. 

This  is  the  way  we  dress  the  Doll,  477. 
This  new  Diana  makes  weak  men  her  prey, 

581. 

This  peach  is  pink  with  such  a  pink,  584. 
This  region  is  as  lavish  of  its  flowers,  641. 
This  relative  of  mine,  465. 
This  the  house  of  Circe,  queen  of  charms,  415. 
Thou  art  not,  and  thou  never  canst  be  mine,  70. 
Thou  art  the  flower  of  grief  to  me,  247. 
Thou  art  the  joy  of  age,  163. 
Thou  didst  delight  my  eyes,  438. 
Though  our  great  love  a  little  wrong  his  fame, 

539. 

Though  singing  but  the  shy  and  sweet,  585. 
Thou  hast  fill'd  me  a  golden  cup,  163. 
Thou  hast  lost  thy  love,  poor  fool,  415. 
Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some  palace-floor,  131. 
Thou  only  bird  that  singest  as  thou  flyest,  400. 
Thou  that  hast  a  daughter,  318. 
Thou  that  once,  on  mother's  knee,  240. 
Thou  tiny  solace  of  these  prison  days,  504. 
Thou  too  hast  travell'd,  little  fluttering  thing, 

62. 
Thou  vague    dumb   crawler  with  the  groping 

head,  504. 

Thou  wert  fair,  Lady  Mary,  67. 
Thou  whom  these  eyes  saw  never,  say  friends 

true,  364. 
"  Thou  wilt  forget  me."     "  Love  has  no  such 

word."     149. 
Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West, 

309. 
Three  of  us  afloat  in  the  meadow  by  the  swing, 

523. 
Three  twangs  of  the  horn,  and  they  're  all  out 

of  cover,  333. 

Through  great  Earl  Norman's  acres  wide,  87. 
Through  laughing  leaves  the  sunlight   comes, 

533. 
Through  storm  and  fire  and  gloom,   I  see  it 

stand,  103. 

Through  the  seeding  grass,  548. 
Through  thick  Arcadian  woods  a  hunter  went, 

405. 
Thus  said  the   Lord  in   the  Vault  above  the 

Cherubim,  600. 
Thus  then,  one  beautiful  day,  in  the  sweet,  cool 

air  of  October,  245. 
Thy  glory  alone,  O  God,  be  the  end  of  all  that 

I  say,  658. 
Thy  greatest  knew  thee,  Mother  Earth;    un- 

sour'd,  374. 
Thy  name  of  old  was  great,  553. 


Thy  voice  is  heard  thro'  rolling  drums,  200. 

Thy  way,  not  mine,  O  Lord,  176. 

Time  has  a  magic  wand,  466. 

Tintadgel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide,  41. 

'T  is  a  stern  and  startling  thing  to  think,  117. 

'Tis  a  world  of  silences.     I  gave  a  cry,  441. 

'T  is  bedtime  ;  say  your  hymn,  and  bid  ' '  Good- 
night," 256. 

'Tis  Christmas,  and  the  North  wind  blows0 
't  was  two  years  yesterday,  551. 

'T  is  evening  now  !  176. 

'T  is  sair  to  dream  o'  them  we  like,  80. 

'T  is  They,  of  a  veritie,  573. 

To-day,  what  is  there  in  the  air,  516. 

To  murder  one  so  young  !  144. 

To  my  true  king  I  offer'd  free  from  stain,  29. 

Too  avid  of  earth's  bliss,  he  was  of  those,  565. 

Too  wearily  had  we  and  song,  569. 

To  sea,  to  sea  !    The  calm  is  o'er,  38. 

To  soothe  a  mad  king's  fevered  brain,  526. 

To  spend  the  long  warm  days,  592. 

To  thee,  O  father  of  the  stately  peaks,  624. 

To  the  forgotten  dead,  592. 

To  the  Wake  of  O'Hara,  282. 

To  turn  my  volumes  o'er  nor  find,  14. 

Touch  not  that  maid,  552. 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  !  22. 

To  write  as  your  sweet  mother  does,  14.  - 

Tripping  down  the  field-path,  76. 

Trust  thou  thy  Love  :  if  she  be  proud,  is  she 
not  sweet  ?  157. 

Twa  race  dooii  by  the  Gatehope-Slack,  579. 

'T  was  a  fierce  night  when  old  Mawgan  died, 
40. 

'T  was  brillig,  and  the  slithy  toves,  478. 

'T  was  but  a  poor  little  room :  a  farm-servant's 
loft  in  a  garret,  244. 

'T  was  eye,  and  Time,  his  vigorous  course  pur- 
suing, 33. 

'T  was  evening,  though  not  sunset,  and  the  tide, 
8. 

'Twas  in  mid  autumn,  and  the  woods  were 
still,  493. 

'T  was  in  the  prime  of  summer  time,  113. 

'Twas  just  before  the  hay  was  mown,  77. 

'T  was  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot,  279. 

'T  was  the  day  beside  the  Pyramids,  322. 

Twelve  years  ago,  when  I  could  face,  627. 

Twist  me  a  crown  of  wind-flowers,  379. 

Twist  thou  and  twine  !  in  light  and  gloom,  40. 

Twitched  strings,  the  clang  of  metal,  beaten 
drums,  (501. 

Two  gaz'd  into  a  pool,  he  gaz'd  and  she,  379. 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight,  4280 

Two  stars  once  on  their  lonely  way,  593. 

Two  voices  are  there :  one  is  of  the  deep,  572. 

Two  winged  genii  in  the  air,  149. 

Two  worlds  hast  thou  to  dwell  in,  Sweet,  567. 

Tyre  of  the  West,  and  glorying  in  the  name, 
59. 

Under  her  gentle  seeing,  283. 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky,  526. 

Up  from  Earth's  centre  through  the  Seventh 

Gate,  341. 

Up  into  the  cherry  tree,  523. 
Up,  my  dogs,  merrily,  643. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Upon  a  day  in  Ramadan,  248. 

Upon  St.  Michael's  Isle,  519. 

Up  the  airy  mountain,  317. 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne,  17. 

Vainly  for  us  the  sunbeams  shine,  81. 
Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity,  352. 
Vasari  tells  that  Luca  Signorelli,  272. 
Venice,  thou  Siren  of  sea-cities,  wrought,  274. 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land 

and  sea,  209. 

Wait  but  a  little  while,  584. 
Wake  !    For  the  Sun  who  scatter'd  into  flight, 

340. 

Wales  England  we_d  ;  so  I  was  bred,  581. 
Was  sorrow  ever  like  unto  our  sorrow  ?  104. 
Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night,  173. 
Water,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice  :  —  nay,  397. 
We  are  as  mendicants  who  wait,  665. 
We  are  born  ;  we  laugh  ;  we  weep,  20. 
We  are  in  love's  land  to-day,  420. 
We  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters  make 

us,  8. 

We  crown'd  the  hard-won  heights  at  length,  63. 
We  do  lie  beneath  the  grass,  39. 
Weep  not !  tears  must  vainly  fall,  149. 
Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town,  86. 
We  have  been  friends  together,  93. 
We  have  seen  thee,  Q  Love,  thou  art  fair,  422. 
Weird  wife  of  Bein-y-Vreich  !  horo  !  horo !  219. 
We  lack,  yet  cannot  fix  upon  the  lack,  379. 
Welcome,  old  friend  !    These  many  years,  10. 
We  '11  a'  go  pu'  the  heather,  150. 
We  '11  not  weep  for  summer  over,  446. 
We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter,  101. 
We  must  pass  like  smoke  or  live  within  the 

spirit's  fire,  606. 
Were  I  but  his  own  wife,  to  guard  and  to  guide 

him,  106. 
Were  you  ever  in  sweet  Tipperary,  where  the 

fields  are  so  sunny  and  green,  105. 
Werther  had  a  love  for  Charlotte,  305. 
We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky,  371. 
We  shall  lodge  at  the  sign  of  the  Grave,  you 

say,  611. 

We  stand  upon  the  moorish  mountain  side,  65. 
We  stood  so  steady,  327. 
West  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest,  673. 
We  've  fought  with  many  men  acrost  the  seas, 

595. 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night,  116. 
We  were  playing  on  the  green  together,  544. 
"  What  are  the  bugles  blowin'  for,"  595. 
What  are  the  Vision  and  the  Cry,  648. 
What  cometh  here  from  west  to  east  a-wend- 

ing  ?  413. 

What  curled   and  scented    sun-girls,    almond- 
eyed,  512. 
What  days  await  this  woman,  whose   strange 

feet,  660. 
Whate'er  of  woe  the  Dark  may  hide  in  womb, 

270. 
What  holds  her  fixed  far  eyes  nor  lets  them 

range,  565. 
What  makes  a  hero  ?  —  not  success,  not  fame, 

27. 


What  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise,  88. 
What  of  her  glass   without  her?    The  blank 

gray,  396. 

What  reck  we  of  the  creeds  of  men,  646. 
Whatsawest  thou,  Orion,  thou   hunter  of  the 

star-lands,  576. 

What  saw  you  in  your  flight  to-day,  674. 
What  shall  my  gift  be  to  the  dead  one  lying, 

Oo4. 

What  should  a  man  desire  to  leave  ?  239. 
What  though  thy  Muse  the  singer's  art  essay, 

332. 

What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall,  216. 
What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan,  134. 
What  was 't  awaken'd  first  the  untried  ear, 

56. 
Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin'  'ere 

aloan?  204. 
When  a'  ither    bairnies    are   hush'd   to   their 

hame,  82. 

When  at  close  of  winter's  night,  472. 
When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ?  395. 
Whene'er  across  this  sinful  flesh  of  mine,  58. 
Whene'er  there  comes  a  little  child,  262. 
When  first  the  unflowering  Fern-forest,  557. 
When  from  my  lips  the  last  faint  sigh  is  blown, 

68. 

When  Helen  first  saw  wrinkles  in  her  face,  14. 
When  He  returns,  and  finds  the  world  so  drear, 

284. 

When  I  am  dead  and  I  am  quite  forgot,  557. 
When  1  am  dead,  my  spirit,  564. 
When  I  was  dead,  my  spirit  turn'd,  376. 
When  I  was  sick  and  lay  a-bed,  523. 
When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad 

year,  193. 

When,  lov'd  by  poet  and  painter,  316. 
When  mirth  is  full  and  free,  59. 
When  my  Clorinda  walks  in  white,  591. 
When  my  feet  have  wander'd,  177. 
When  on  my  country  walks  I  go,  591. 
When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze,  74. 
When  our  heads  arc  bow'd  with  woe,  170. 
When  our  two  souls  stand  up  erect  and  strong, 

132. 

When  russet  beech-leaves  drift  in  air,  299. 
When  stars  are  in  the  quiet  skies,  43. 
When  the  dumb  Hour,  cloth'd  in  black,  212. 
When  the  flush  of  a  new-born  sun  fell  first, 

598. 
When  the  hounds  of  spring   are    on  winter's 

traces,  421. 

When  the  last  bitterness  was  past,  she  bore,  564. 
When  the  soul  sought  refuge  in  the  place  of 

rest,  605. 

When,  think  you,  comes  the  Wind,  443. 
When  we  are  parted  let  me  lie,  329. 
When  we  were  girl  and  boy  together,  38. 
When  you  and  I  have  played  the  little  hour, 

673. 

When  you  are  dead  some  day,  my  dear,  568. 
Where  are  the  swallows  fled,  312. 
Where  art  thou  gone,  light-ankled  Youth  ?  9. 
Where  Ausonian  summers  glowing,  56. 
Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear  ?  164. 
Where,  girt  with  orchard  and  with  olive-yard, 

554. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES 


725 


Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 

218. 

Where  shall  we  learn  to  die  ?  180. 
Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown,  570. 
Where  wert  thou,  Soul,  ere  yet  my  body  born, 

297. 

Whethen  is  it  yourself,  Mister  Hagan,  587. 
Which  is  more  sweet,  —  the  slow  mysterious 

stream,  504. 
Which  of  the  Angels  sang  so  well  in  Heaven, 

370. 
Whistling  strangely,  whistling  sadly,  whistling 

sweet  and  clear,  608. 
White  little  hands,  265. 

Whither  is  gone  the  wisdom  and  the  power,  57. 
Whither,   O    splendid    ship,    thy    white    sails 

crowding,  438. 

Who  calls  me  bold  because  I  won  my  love,  277. 
Who  dreamed  that  beauty  passes  like  a  dream, 

604. 

Whoever  lives  true  life,  will  love  true  love,  141. 
Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ?  102. 
Who  has  not  walk'd  upon  the  shore,  437. 
"  Whom  the  gods    love   die    young."      The 

thought  is  old,  272. 
Who  remains  in  London,  281. 
Whosoe'er  had  look'd  upon  the  glory  of  that 

day,  388. 

Who  will  away  to  Athens  with  me  ?  who,  3. 
Why  groaning  so,  thou  solid  earth,  156. 
Why,  having  won  her,  do  I  woo  ?  234. 
Why,  let  them  rail !    God's  full  anointed  ones, 

673. 

Why,  when  the  world's  great  mind,  221. 
Why  will  you  haunt  me  unawares,  522. 
Why  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair  ? 

397. 

Widow  Machree,  it  's  no  wonder  you  frown,  89. 
"  Wild  huntsmen  '1 "  — 'T  was  a  flight  of  swans, 

259. 

Wild,  wild  wind,  wilt  thou  never  cease  thy  sigh- 
ing, 309. 

Will  there  never  come  a  season,  571. 
With  breath  of  thyme  and  bees  that  hum,  488. 
With  deep  affection,  55. 
Wither'd  pansies  faint  and  sweet,  390. 
With  fingers  weary  and  worn,  120. 
With  half  a  heart  I  wander  here,  524. 
Within  a  low-thatch'd  hut,  built  in  a  lane,  126. 


Within  the  isle,  far  from  the  walks  of  men. 

32. 

Within  the  unchanging  twilight,  146. 
Within  this  charmed  cool  retreat,  667. 
With  little  white  leaves  in  the  grasses,  564. 
With  me  along  the   strip  of    herbage  strown, 

340. 

With  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan,  485. 
With  purple  glow  at  even,  654. 
With  rosy  hand  a  little  girl  press'd  down,  14. 
With  the  Orient  in  her  eyes,  666. 
Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king,  94. 
Would  God   my  heart  were  greater;  but  God 

wot,  422. 
Would  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold 

music  I  build,  362. 

Yea,  love,  I  know,  and  I  would  have  it  thus, 

593. 
Yea,  Love  is  strong  as  life  ;  he  casts  out  fear, 

336. 

Year  after  year,  299. 
Year  after  year  I  sit  for  them,  602. 
Ye  are  young,  ye  are  young,  594. 
Yes,  Cara  mine,  I  know  that  I  shall  stand,  330. 
Yes  ;  I  write  verses  now  and  then,  15. 
Yes,  love,  the  Spring  shall  come  again,  435. 
Yes !  thou  art  fair,  and  I  had  lov'd,  149. 
Yes  ;  when  the  ways  oppose,  489. 
Yet  ah,  that   Spring  should  vanish  with   the 

rose,  342. 

Yon  silvery  billows  breaking  on  the  beach,  269. 
You  ask  for  fame  or  power,  645. 
You  had  two  girls  —  Baptiste,  669. 
You  know,  we  French  storm'd  Ratisbon,  345. 
You  lay  a  wreath  on  murder'd  Lincoln's  bier. 

450. 

You  may  give  over  plough,  boys,  367. 
You  must  be  troubled,  Asthore,  576. 
Young  Rory  O'More  courted  Kathleen  Bawn, 

88. 

Young  Sir  Guyon  proudly  said,  254. 
You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife,  231. 
Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees,  352. 
Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 

13. 

Your  tiny  picture  makes  me  yearn,  165. 
You  smil'd,  you  spoke,  and  I  believ'd,  13. 
You  take  a  town  you  cannot  keep,  69. 


INDEX   OF   TITLES 


Abide  with  me Lyte  173 

Abide  with  us Bonar  176 

Abnegation   (from   "  Monna  Innomi- 

nata  ") C.  Eossetti  378 

Aboriginal  Mother's   Lament,   An 

Harpur  616 

Above  St.  Ire'ne'e D.  Scott  668 

Abraham  Lincoln T.  Taylor  450 

Absence Blaikie  569 

Abt  Vogler E.  Browning  362 

Across  the  Fields Crane  503 

Actea Eodd  564 

Adieu T.  Carlyle  80 

Adieu E.  Montgomery  633 

Adieu  to  France  (from   "  De  Rober- 

val ") Hunter-Duvar  640 

Ad  Majorem  Dei  Gloriam F.  Scott  658 

Advice Landor  14 

^Eolian  Harp,  An Field  521 

^Bsop Lang  499 

^Etate  XIX Merivale  461 

Afoot _ C.  Roberts  653 

After  Construing Benson  583 

After  Death Parnell  537 

After  Death C.  Rossetti  376 

After  Death  in  Arabia Sir  E.  Arnold  249 

After  Summer P.  Marston  446 

After  the  Battle Trench  63 

Afterwards Lady  Currie  296 

Agatha Austin  265 

Age Garnett  332 

Age,  The Clarice  534 

Age  of  Wisdom,  The Thackeray  304 

Ah,  bring  it  not. Radford  602 

Ah  !  yet  consider  it  again Clough  218 

Akinetos  (from  "  Orion  ") E.  Home  33 

"All  Other  Joys"    (from    "Modern 

Love  ") G.  Meredith  371 

All  Souls'  Night Sigerson  610 

America Dobell  368 

Amico  Sno H.  Horne  591 

Amours  de  Voyage  (extract) Clough  217 

Ancient  and  Modern  Muses,  The 

Palgrave  239 

Andromeda  (extract) Kingsley  310 

Andromeda  and  the  Sea-Nymphs  (from 

"  Andromeda  ")   Kingsley  310 

And  yet  —  and  yet !  (from  "  The  Ru- 

baiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  ") . FitzGerald  342 

Angel  at  the  Ford,  The Dawson  537 

Angel  in  the  House,  The  (extracts) 

Palmore  233 

Antiphony  (from  "  The'  Earthly  Para- 
dise ") W.  Morris  410 


Appeal,  The Landor  13 

Aretina's  Song Sir  H.  Taylor  27 

Ars  Victrix Dobson  489 

Art  (from  "  A  Lover's  Diary  "). .  .Parker  672 

Asian  Birds Bridges  439 

Ask  me  no  more A.  Tennyson  200 

As  Thro'  the  Land A.  Tennyson  199 

As  Yonder  Lamp Whitehead  60 

Atalanta  in  Calydon  (extracts). .  Swinburne  421 
Atalanta's  Defeat  (from  "  The  Earthly 

Paradise  ") W.  Morris  407 

Atalanta's  Victory  (from  "  The  Earthly 

Paradise  ") W.  Morris  405 

At  Fontainebleau Symons  601 

At  her  Grave O' Shaughnessy  441 

At  his  Grave Austin  263 

At  Home C.  Eossetti  376 

At  Home  in  Heaven J.  Montgomery  168 

Athulf  's  Death  Song Beddoes  38 

At  Husking  Time Johnson  674 

At  Last P.  Marston  447 

At  Last Sir  L.  Morris  256 

At  Les  Eboulements D.  Scott  669 

At  Stratf ord-on-Avon Bell  545 

At  the  Cedars D.  Scott  669 

At  the  Church  Gate Thackeray  303 

At  the  Grave  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

Bell  545 

At  the  Last P.  Marston  446 

Aurora  Leigh  (extracts) E.  Browning  139 

Australian  Girl,  An Castillo  632 

Autobiography,  An Rhys  581 

Autochthon C.  Roberts  651 

Autumn  Flitting,  An Cotterell  494 

Autumn  Memories Savage- Armstrong  299 

Aux  Italiens Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton  380 

Ave  atque  vale R.  Watson  574 

Ave  Imperatrix O.  Wilde  549 

Awake,  my  Heart ! Bridges  439 

Axe,  The L  Crawford  647 

Baby G.  Macdonald  164 

Babylonia  (extract)  Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton  382 

Baby  May Bennett  78 

Baker's  Tale,  The  (from  "  The  Hunt- 
ing of  the  Snark  ") Dodgson  478 

Balder  (extracts) Dobell  368 

Balder  Dead  (extract) M.  Arnold  223 

Ballade  of  Playing  Cards,  A White  526 

Ballades Lang  495 

Ballad  :  It  was  not  in  the  Winter. .  .Hood  116 

Ballad  of  a  Bridal Bland  561 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse,  The . . .  Thackeray  303 

Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies,  The. . .  D.  Rossetti  398 


728 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Ballad  of  East  and  West,  The Kipling  596 

Ballad  of  Heaven,  A Davidson  558 

Ballad  of  Human  Life Beddoes  38 

Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot,  The .  ..Buchanan  279 

Ballad  of  Orleans,  A Darmesteter  558 

Ballad  of  the  Boat,  The Garnett  331 

Ballad  :  Spring  it  is  cheery Hood  117 

Ballad  :  The  Auld  Wife  sat Calverley  4(59 

Banshee,  The Todhunter  332 

Barons  Bold,  The Fox  112 

Bathers,  The  (from  "  The  Bothie  of 

Tober-na-Vuolich  ") Clough  215 

Battle  of  La  Prairie,  The 

Schuyler-Liyhthall  648 

Beauty Alex.  Smith  168 

Beauty  at  the  Plough  (from  "  Dorothy  ") 

Munby  245 

Bedtime Earl  of  Eosslyn  256 

Bees  of  Myddelton  Manor,  The Probyn  542 

Before  and  After O.  M.  Brown  541 

Beloved,  it  is  Morn Hickey  503 

Below  the  Heights W.  Pollock  516 

Be  mine,  and  I  will  give  thy  Name 

Bennett  79 

Beneath  the  Wattle  Boughs Gill  630 

Between  the  Rapids Lampman  659 

Between  the  Showers Levy  579 

Birdcatcher's  Song  (from  "  The  Para- 
dise of  Birds  ") Courthope  472 

Bird  in  the  Hand,  A Weatherly  509 

Bird's  Song  at  Morning Dawson  535 

Bird's  Song,  the  Sun,  and  the  Wind, 

The C.  Roberts  653 

Birth  and  Death Wade  126 

Birth  of  Australia,  The P.  Eussell  615 

Birth  of  Speech,  The H.  Coleridge  56 

Bishop    orders    his    Tomb    at    Saint 

Praxed's  Church,  The E.  Browning  352 

Blackbird,  The F.  Tennyson  188 

Blackmwore  Maidens Barnes  107 

Black  Wall-Flower,  The Kemble  66 

Blessed  Damozel,  The D.  Eossetti  392 

Bless  the  Dear  Old  Verdant  Land 

MacCarthy  100 

Blood  Horse,  The B.  Procter  21 

Blood -Red    Ring   hung    round    the 

Moon,  A Logan  643 

Blue  Closet,  The W.  Morris  403 

Board  School  Pastoral,  A M.  Kendall  578 

Boatman  of  Kinsale,  The Dams  98 

Bonnie  Bessie  Lee Nicoll  150 

Book  of  Orm.  The  (extract) . . .  Buchanan  285 
Books  (from     Aurora  Leigh") 

E.  Browning  139 

Boot  and  Saddle E.  Browning  344 

Bothie  of    Tober-na-Vuolich,  The 

(extract) Clough  215 

Bothwell  (extract) Swinburne  425 

Brawn  of  England's  Lay. . . Hunter-Duvar  641 

Break,  break,  break A.  Tennyson  198 

Breath  of  Avon,  The Watts  270 

Brechva's  Harp  Song Bhys  581 

l>  Brides'  Tragedy,  The,"  Songs  from 

Beddoes  39 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  The Hood  122 

Broken  Music  (from  "  The  House  of 

Life") D.  Eossetti  396 


Brook-Side,  The Lord  Hcwghton  66 

Buffalo  Herds,  The  (from  k%  Tecum- 

seh  ") Mair  642 

Bugle  Song A.  Tennyson  199 

Builders,  The E.  Elliott  112 

Buoy-Bell,  The Turner  192 

Burghers'  Battle,  The W.  Morris  413 

Burial  Hymn Milman  170 

Burial  of  Robert  Browning,  The .  M.  Field  5 1C 

Buried  Life,  The M.  Arnold  227 

Burnt  Lands C.  Roberts  650 

Butterfly,  The Skipsey  330 

Byron  the  Voluptuary W.  Watson  565 

"  By  Solitary  Fires  "  (from  "  Aurora 

Leigh  ") E.  Browning  141 

By  the  Salpe"triere Ashe  266 

Cadences Payne  434 

Cailleach  Bein-y-Vreich Shairp  21i) 

Caliph's  Draught,  The  . . .  .Sir  E.  Arnold  248 

Canada C.  Roberts  649 

Canadian  Folk-Song,  A W.  Campbell  654 

Canadian  Hunter's  Song Moodie  633 

Canoe,  The I.  Crawford  '646 

"  Canute  the  Great"  (extract; .  .M.  Field  517 

Cardinal  Manning De  Vere      70 

Cardinal's  Soliloquy,  The  (from  "  Riche- 
lieu ;  or  the  Conspiracy  "). .  Lord  Lytton      42 

Carpe  Diem T.  Marzials  516 

Casa  Guidi  Windows  (extracts) 

E.  Browning  134 

Casa's  Dirge Moir      81 

Castle  Ruins,  The Barnes  108 

Cavalier  Tunes JR.  Browning  343 

Celia's  Home-Coming Darmesteter  556 

Celtic  Cross,  The McGee  103 

Champagne  Ros4 Kenyon      72 

Changeless Meynell  538 

Characterization,  A Sir  H.  Taylor      26 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  The 

A.  Tennyson  203 

Charles  Lamb Beatty  539 

Charles  the  First  (extract) Wills  455 

"  Charles  II  "  (extract) Sladen  552 

Charles  II  of  Spain  to  Approaching 

Death Lee-Hamilton  504 

Chartist  Song Cooper  127 

Chastelard  (extract) Swinburne  422 

Chateau  Papineau Harrison  667 

Chess-Board,  The.  .Eobert,  Earl  of  Lytton"  382 
"  Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower 

came  " B.  Browning  355 

Child  of  a  Day Landor      10 

Child's  Evening  Hymn Baring-Gould  183 

Child's  Portrait,  A Dawson  535 

Choric  Song  (from  "  The  Lotos-Eat- 
ers ")  A.  Tennyson  194 

Chorus  of  Spirits Darley      17 

Christie's  Portrait Massey  165 

Christmas  Hymn,  A  (New  Style  :  1875, 

extract) Domett  144 

Christmas  Hymn,  A  (Old  Style :  1837) 

Domett  143 
Christmas  Letter  from  Australia,  A 

Sladen  551 

Christmas  Song,  A Bennett      79 

Churchyard,  The Buchanan  289 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


729 


Circe Lard  De  Tabley  415 

City  of  Dreadful  Night,  The  (extract) 

J.  Thomson  385 

City  of  the  End  of  Things,  The  .Lampman  661 

Cockayne  Country Darmesteter  556 

Coin  of    Pity,   The   (from   "  Modern 

Love") G.  Meredith  371 

Coleridge Watts  269 

Colonos Alford  67 

Combat,  The  (from  "  Sohraband  Rus- 

tum  ") M.  Arnold  221 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud .  A .  Tennyson  207 

Companions Calverley  469 

Confused  Dawn,  The . . .  Schuyler-Lighthall  648 

Conquest,  A W.  Pollock  517 

Content Gale  585 

Conundrum  of  the  Workshops,  The 

Kipling  598 

Coogee H.  Kendall  625 

Cornfields M.  Howitt  74 

Country  Faith,  The Gale  585 

Country  Kisses  (from  "  Dorothy  ")  Munby  244 

Court  Lady,  A E.  Browning  136 

Coves  of  Crail,  The Sharp  547 

Cowslips Landor  14 

Dradle,  The Dobson  486 

Crocus,  The King  389 

Cromwell  and  Henrietta  Maria  (from 

"  Charles  the  First ") Wills  455 

Crossing  the  Bar A.  Tennyson  212 

Crossing  the  Black  water Joyce  327 

Crusader  Chorus  (from  "  The  Saint's 

Tragedy  ") Kinasley  308 

Cry,  A Clarke  534 

Cry  of  the  Children,  The  ....E.  Browning  128 

Cuddle  doon Anderson  502 

Curb's  Progress,  The Dobson  486 

Curlew's  Call.A J.  Barlow  587 

Cynic  of  the  Woods,  The Martin  631 

Daisy F.  Thompson  570 

Daisy,  The Eodd  564 

Daisy,  The A.  Tennyson  205 

Dancers,  The M.  Field  520 

Daiiish  Barrow,  A Palgrave  241 

Danny  Deever Kipling  595 

Dante,  Shakespeare,  Milton  (from 

"  Balder  ") Dobell  369 

Danube  River,  The Aide  328 

Daphne,  To Besant  336 

Darby  and  Joan Weatherly  510 

Dark,  The  (from  "The  Spanish 

Gypsy  ") - Cross  155 

Dark  Glass,  The  (from  "The  House 

of  Life  ") D.  Eossetti  396 

Dark  Rosaleen Mangan  91 

Darwinism Darmesteter  557 

Daughters  of  Philistia  (from  "  Olrig 

Grange") W.  Smith  236 

David  Exorcising  Malzah  (from 

"  Saul ") . .  Heavysege  635 

Dawii  and  Dark . Gale  586 

Dawn- Angels Darmesteter  556 

Day  and  Night  Songs. Allingham  319 

Day  is  Dead  (from  "  Songs  from 

Dramas  ") Webster  463 

Dead,  The Blind  522 


Dead  Child,  The G.  Barlow  507 

Dead  Church,  The Kingsley  309 

Dead  Coach,  The Hinkson  577 

Dead  Friend,  A Gale  585 

Dead  Letter,  A Dobson  483 

Dead  March,  A Mon/chouse  111 

Dead  Singer,  A Logan  644 

Dean's    Consent,    The    (from    "The 

Angel  in  the  House  ") Patmore  233 

Dear  Old  Toiling  One,  The Gray  271 

Death  as  the  Fool F.  Marzials  493 

Death  as  the  Teacher  of  Love-Lore 

F.  Marzials  493 

Death-Bed,  The Hood  116 

Death-Child,  The Sharp  547 

Death  of  Artemidora,  The Landor  7 

Death  of  Hampden Beatty  539 

Death  of  Marlborough,  The Thornbury  322 

Death's  Alchemy Walker  56 

"  Death's  Jest-Book,"  Songs  from 

Beddoes  38 
Deaths  of  Myron  and  Klydone  (from 

"  In  a  Day  ") Webster  463 

Death  Song,  A W.  Morris  413 

Death  Undreaded Landor  16. 

"  De  Gustibus  —  " E.  Browning  352. 

Deid  Folks'  Ferry E.  Watson  573 

Departure  of  the  Swallow,  Th«.  W.  Howitt  73 

De  Prof undis Hinkson  575. 

De  Roberval  (extracts) Hunter-Duvar  638 

De  Rosis  Hibernis Gosse  513- 

Deserted  City,  The C.  Eoberts  651 

Deserted  House,  The A.  Tennyson  194 

Deserter  from  the  Cause,  The Massey  165 

Dewdrop,  The Skipsey  329* 

Diana Rhys  581 

Didactic  Poem,  The Garnett  331 

Digger's  Grave,  The Welch  630' 

Dinner  Hour,  The  (from  "  Lucile  ") 

Eobert,  Earl  of  Lytton  383'. 

Dirce Landor  8 

Dirge  for  Summer,  A Evans  375 

Dirge  :  If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  Heart 

Beddoes  3S 
Dirge :  We  do  lie  beneath  the  Grass 

Beddoes  39 

Disciples,  The  (extract) King  388 

Distraught  for  Merop^  (from  "  Orion  ") 

E.  Borne  31 
Domine,  Cui  sunt  Pleiades  Curse 

C.  Eoberts  653 

Dominion  of  Australia,  The  .J.B.  Stephens  621. 

Doom-Bar,  The A.  Gilhngton  609 

Doris  :  A  Pastoral Munby  242 

Dorothy :  A  Country  Story  (extracts) 

Munby  243 
Dorothy's  Room  (from  "  Dorothy") 

Munby  244 

Doubting  Heart,  A A .  Procter  312 

Douglas  Gordon Weatherly  509 

Dover  Beach M.  Arnold  226 

Dover  Cliff .Home  532 

Dream,  A Allingham  318 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram,  The Hood  113 

Dream  of  the  World  without  Death, 
The  (from  "  The  Book  of  Orm  ") 

Buchanan  285 


73° 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Dream-Pedlary Beddoes  37 

Dream-Tryst F.  Thompson  570 

Dressing  the  Doll Hands  477 

Dried-Up  Fountain,  The Leighton  220 

Dule  's  i'  this  Bonnet  o'  mine,  The .  Waugh  109 

During  Music Symons  601 

Dying Noel  260 

Earl  Norman  and  John  Truman 

C.  Mackay  87 

Earth Jtoscoe  231 

Earthly  Paradise,  The  (extracts) 

W.  Morris  404 

Earth's  Burdens E.G.  Jones  156 

Earth  to  Earth M.  Field  521 

Echo  from  Willowwood,  An. . .  C.  Rossetti  379 

Ecstasy E.  Mackay  531 

Edwin  the  Fair  (extract) . .  .Sir  H.  Taylor  26 

Elegy Bridges  438 

Elegy  on  William  Cobbett E.  Elliott  111 

Elements,  The Newman  59 

Emigrant  Lassie,  The Blackie  85 

Empedocles  on  Etna  (extract).  .M.  Arnold  226 

End  of  the  Day,  The D.  Scott  671 

End  of  the  Play,  The Thackeray  306 

England Newman  59 

England  (from  "  Aurora  Leigh  ") 

•                   E.  Browning  141 

England  and  her  Colonies  . . . .  W.  Watson  614 

English  Girl,  An Home  532 

English  Shell,  An  Benson  583 

Envoy Carman  666 

Envoy  (from  "  A  Lover's  Diary  ") 

Parker  673 
Envoy  to  an  American  Lady,  An 

Lord  Houghton  65 

Eos  (from  "  Orion  ") 11.  Home  33 

Epicurean Linton  150 

Epicurean's  Epitaph,  An De  Vere  68 

Epigram    on   the    Death  of   Edward 

Forbes Dobell  368 

Epigrams W.  Watson  565 

Epilogue JR.  Browning  365 

Episode,  An Symonds  272 

Epitaph R.  Browning  364 

Epitaph  for  a  Sailor  buried  Ashore 

C.  Roberts  652 

Epitaph  of  Dionysia Anonymous  232 

Epitaph  on  a  Jacobite Macaulay  29 

Erinna Lang  498 

Etruscan  Ring,  An Mackail  554 

Etsi  Omnes,  Ego  Non E.  Myers  299 

Etude  Re*aliste Swinburne  431 

Eurydiee Bourdillon  533 

Evelyn  Hope B.  Browning  354 

Eventide Burbidge  72 

Eviction Linton  147 

Execution  of  Montrose,  The Aytoun  44 

Exile's  Devotion,  The McGee  104 

Exile's  Song,  The Giifillan  81 

Exit..... W.  Watson  565 

Expectation Wratislaw  607 

Face,  A R.  Browning  351 

Face,  The Ebenezer  Jones  158 

Faery  Foster-Mother,  The Buchanan  288 

Fair  Circassian,  The •.  Garnett  331 


Fairies,  The Allingham  317 

Fair  Ines Hood  116 

Fair  Maid  and  the  Sun,  The 

O'  Shauqhnessy  440 

Fairy  Thorn,  The Ferguson  96 

Fairy  Thrall,  The M.  Byron  608 

Faith Kemble  67 

Fall  of  a  Soul,  The Symonds  274 

Familiar  Epistle,  A Dobson  4!)0 

Farewell > Symonds  274 

Farewell,  A Kingsley  311 

Farewell  to  Italy Landor  11 

Farm  on  the  Links,  The R.  Watson  574 

"  Father,  The  " Savage- Armstrong  300 

Father  Francis II'.  Pollock  517 

Featherstone's  Doom Hawker  40 

Ferment  of  New  Wine,   The    (from 

"  Aurora  Leigh  ") E.  Browning  140 

Festus  (extracts) Bailey  158 

Fiesolan  Idyl  Landor  10 

First  Kiss,  The Gale  585* 

First  Kiss,  The Watts  270 

First  or  Last  ? Veley  2<>4 

First  Skylark  of  Spring,  The. .  W.  Watson  567 

Flight  from  Glory,  A Lef-Hamilton  505 

Flight  of  Malzah,  The  (from  "Saul  ") 

Heavy sege  636 

Flight  of  the  Geese,  The C.  Roberts  650 

Flitch  of  Dunmow,  The.  .Earl  of  Southesk  315 

Flos  Florum Munby  246 

Flower,  The A.  Tennyson  206 

Flower  in  the  Crannied  Wall.,.-!.  Tennyson  211 

Flower  of  Beauty,  The Darley  17 

Flowers Hood  115 

Flowers  I  would  bring De  Vere  69 

Fluttered  Wings C.  Rossetti  378 

Folk  of  the  Air,  The Yeats  604 

Fool's  Revenge,  The  (extract)  . .  T.  Taylor  448 

Football-Player,  A. Lefroy  542 

For  a  Copy  of  Theocritus Dobson  488 

For  an  Epitaph  at  Fiesole  Landor  16 

Foray  of  Con  O'Donnell,  The  (extract) 

MacCarthy  101 

Forby  Sutherland 3f '  Crete  622 

Foreboding,  A Lady  Currie  295 

Forecast,  A Lampman  660 

Foreign  Lands Stevenson  523 

Forerunners  (from  "  A  Life-Drama  ") 

Alex.  Smith  166 

"  Foresters,  The,"  Song  in.    .A.  Tennyson  211 

Forest  Glade,  The Turner  192 

Forgotten  Grave,  The Dobson  486 

Formosae  Puellae H.  Home  591 

Forsaken,  The .Aidt  329 

Forsaken  Garden,  A Swinburne  432 

Forsaken  Merman,  The M.  Arnold  224 

For  the  Picture,  "  The  Last  of  England  " 

F.  Mad  ox  Brown  390 

Fortune's  Wheel Lord  De  Tablev  415 

Fragment  of  a  Sleep-Song Dobell  370 

From  the  Recesses Bowring  172 

"  Fuzzy-Wuzzy  " Kipling  595 

Gage  d'Amour,  A Dobson  485 

Gallant  Fleet,  The  (from  "  De  Rober- 

val ")  Hunter-Duvar  640 

Garden  Fairies P.  Marston  444 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


Qebir  (extract)  Landor  8 

Geist's  Grave M.  Arnold  229 

Genius ft.  Home  35 

Gibraltar Blunt  492 

Gillyflower  of  Gold,  The W.  Morris  402 

Girl  of  All  Periods,  The Patmore  235 

Give  a  Rouse • B.  Browning  344 

Given  over Woolner  392 

Giving  to  God C.  Wordsworth  175 

Glee  for  Winter,  A Domett  143 

Glenkindie W.  B.  Scott  144 

Glory  of  Motion,  The Tyrwhitt,  333 

Golden  Rowan Carman  662 

Golden  Text,  The Cameron  645 

Golden-Tressed  Adelaide B.  Procter  21 

Good-By C.  Bossetti  380 

"  Good-Night,  Babette  !  " Dobson  486 

Gordon. E.  Myers  297 

Grave-Digger's    Song  (from   "Prince 

Lucifer  "  ) Austin  264 

Great  Breath,  The G.  Eussell  606 

Greek  Idyl,  A Collins  315 

Greeting,  A P.  Marston  442 

Hack  and  Hew Carman  666 

Half- Waking Allingham  319 

Hamadryad,  The Landor  3 

Hans  Christian  Andersen Gosse  513 

Happy  Wanderer,  The Addleshaw  611 

Harvest-Home  Song Davidson  558 

Has  Summer  come  without  the  Rose  ? 

O' Shaughnessy  441 

Haymakers'  Song,  The Austin  265 

Heare,  The Barnes  107 

Heart  and  Will Linton  148 

Heartsease Landor  16 

Heat Lampman  659 

Heather  Ale  :  A  Galloway  Legend 

Stevenson  525 
He  came  unlook'd  for  (from  "Phan- 

tasmion  ") S.  Coleridge  60 

He  heard  her  sing  (extract) ...  (7.  Thomson  387 

Helen's  Song  (from  "  Festus  "). . .  .Bailey  161 

Heliodore  Dead Lang  498 

Heracleitus Cory  232 

Her  Confirmation .Image  591 

Hereafter B.  Watson  574 

Her  First-Born Turner  193 

Her    Gifts  (from    "The  House  of 

Life  ") D.  Bossetti  395 

Hero,  The Nicoll  151 

Hero,  The Sir  H.  Taylor  27 

Hero- Worship W.  B.  Scott  147 

Her  Pity P.  Marston  446 

Hertha Swinburne  428 

Hesperia Swinburne  417 

Hesperus  sings Beddoes  39 

Hidden  Joys Blanchard  126 

Hiding  the  Skeleton  (from  "Modern 

Love  ") G.  Meredith  371 

High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincoln- 
shire, The > Ingelow  324 

His  Banner  over  me Massey  166 

Holy  Matrimony Keble  172 

Home  in  War-Tim/a Dobell  368 

Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad 

B.  Browning  351 


Honoria's  Surrender  (from  "  The  An- 
gel in  the  House  ") Patmore  233 

Hope  and  Fear Swinburne  428 

House  of  Life,  The  (extracts).!;.  Bossetti  395 

House  of  the  Trees,  The IVetherald  675 

How  my  Song  of  her  began ...  P.  Marston  444 

How 's  my  Boy  ? Dobell  365 

"How  they  brought  the  Good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix  " B.  Browning  349 

How  to  read  me Landor  14 

How  we  beat  the  Favorite Gordon  617 

Humanity Dixon  400 

Human  Life De  Vere  69 

Hunter's  Song,  The B.  Procter  19 

Hunting  of  the  Snark,  The  (extract) 

Dodgson  478 

H.  W.  L Nichol  255 

Hymn Adams  127 

Hymn  for  the  Sixteenth  Sunday  after 

Trinity Milman  170 

lanthe's  Troubles Landor  13 

Ideality H.  Coleridge  57 

Ideal  Memory Dawson  536 

I  die,  being  Young Gray  272 

Idylls  of  the  King  (extract)  .  .A.  Tennyson  208 

lena's  Song  (from  "Tecumseh  "). .  .Mair  642 

If  All  the  World Badford  602 

If  I  desire Burbidge  71 

If  only  thou  art  True G.  Barlow  507 

"  If  she  be  made  of  White  and  Red  " 

H.  Horne  592 

If  she  but  knew O' Shauqhnessy  442 

If  you  were  here P.  Marston  447 

I  gave  my  Life  for  thee Haver  gal  183 

II  Fior  degli  Eroici  Furori Symonds  274 

Immortality F.  Myers  292 

Immortality G.  Bussell  606 

Imperator  Augustus Bodd  564 

Impression Gosse  482 

In  a  Day  (extract) Webster  463 

"  In  After  Days  " Dobson  491 

In  After  Time Landor  14 

In  a  Garden   by  Moonlight    (from 

"  Torrismond "") Beddoes  37 

In  a  Gondola B.  Browning  346 

In  a  Lecture-Room dough  214 

In  a  September  Night Home  532 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 

B.  Browning  345 
Inclusiveness  (from  "The  House   of 

Life  "). D.  Bossetti  396 

Incremation,    The    (from     "  Balder 

Dead  ") M.  Arnold  223 

Indian  Love-Song . . .  Bobert,  Earl  of  LWon  380 

Indian  Song,  An Yeats  603 

In  Forest  Depths  (from  "  Orion  ") 

B.  Horne  32 

In  Green  Old  Gardens Lady  Currie  296 

In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor 

Swinburne  419 

Inn  of  Care,  The Waddington  297 

In  November D.  Scott  670 

In  Pace Bopes  568 

In  Praise  of  Gilbert  White    (from 

"  The  Paradise  of  Birds  ".).  . .  Courthope  473 

In  the  Golden  Birch E.  Roberts  658 


732 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


In  the  Golden  Morning  of  the  World 

Westwood  213 

In  the  Mile  End  Road Levy  579 

In  the  Season Stevenson  524 

In  the  States Stevenson  524 

In  the  Twilight Cotterell  495 

In  the  Wood Clarke  533 

Introductory    (from  "  The  House  of 

Life  ") D.  Rossetti  395 

In  Tuscany E.  Mackay  532 

Invincible  (from  '*  A  Lover's  Diary") 

Parker  673 

Invocation,  An Landor  8 

Iris M.  Field  521 

Irishman  and  the  Lady,  The Maginn  54 

Irish  Rapparees,  The .Duffy  100 

Irish  Wife,  The McGee  103 

Irish  Wolf-Hound,  The MacCarthy  101 

I  saw  a  New  World Rands  477 

I  saw,  I  saw  the  Lovely  Child . . .  .F.  Myers  293 

"  Is  it  Nothing  to  you  ?  " Probyn  544 

Island  of  Shadows,  The Garnett  330 

Isle  of  Lost  Dreams,  The Sharp  547 

Isles,  The C.Roberts  650 

Ite  Domum  Saturse,  venit  Hesperus 

Clough  217 

I  think  on  thee Hervey  75 

"  It  is  finished  " C.  Rossetti  377 

It  may.be Addleshaw  611 

Ivory  Gate,  The Collins  316 

Ivry Macaulay  29 

Ivy  Green,  The Dickens  307 

I  will  not  let  thee  go Bridges  437 

Izaak  Walton  to  River  and  Brook 

Lee-Hamilton  504 

Jabberwocky Dodgson  478 

Jackdaw  of  Rheims.  The Barham    50 

Jacobite  on  Tower  Hill,  The. . .  Thornbury  322 

Javanese  Dancers Symons  601 

Jester  and  his  Daughter,  The  (from 

"  The  Fool's  Revenge  ") T.  Taylor  448 

Jesus  the  Carpenter Liddell  510 

John  Knox's  Indictment  of  the  Queen 

("  from  Bothwell  ") Swinburne  425 

John  of   Launoy   (from  "  Philip  van 

Artevelde  ") Sir  H.  Taylor  25 

"Joseph  and  his  Brethren  "  (extracts) 

Wells  22 

Juggling  Jerry G .  Meredith  371 

Juliet  of  Nations  (from  "  Casa  Guidi 

Windows)  " E.  Browning  134 

Jumblies,  The Lear  475 

Jungf rau's  Cry,  The Brooke  253 

Just  as  I  am C.  Elliott  169 

Just  for  To-Day Wilberforce  175 

Juxtaposition  (from  ' '  Amours  de  Voy- 
age) " Clough  217 

Karma Canton  500 

Kate  Temple 's  Song Collins  316 

Kathleen  Mavourneen L.  Crawford  301 

Keepers  of  the  Pass.  The C.  Roberts  652 

King  of  Denmark's  Ride,  The Norton  94 

King's  Visit.  The  (from  "  The  Earthly 

Paradise  ") W.  Morris  408 

Kitty  Neil Waller  95 


Knapweed Benson  582 

Knowledge F.  Scott  656 

Knowledge  after  Death Beeching  554 

Krishna G.  Russell  605 

Lachrymse  Musarum W.  Watson  565 

Lachrymatory,  The Turner  191 

Ladies  of  St.  James's,  The Dobson  489 

Lady  Mary Alford  67 

Laird  of  Schelynlaw,  The Veitch  323 

Lake  Memory,  A W.  Campbell  655 

Lament Nod  261 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant . . .  Dufferin  93 
Land  across  the  Sea,  A   (from  "  The 

Earthly  Paradise  ").  .• W.  Morris  409 

Land  of  Counterpane,  The Stevenson  523 

Land  of  Nod,  The Stevenson  524 

Landor Japp  276 

Lapsus  Calami J.  E.  Stephen  571 

Lark  Ascending,  Th,e G.  Meredith  373 

Last  Aboriginal,  The Sharp  546 

Last  Appeal,  A F.  Myers  292 

Last  Buccaneer,  The Kingsley  310 

Last  Chantey,  The Kipling  600 

Last  Lines,  Her E.  Bronte  154 

Last  Night T.  Marzials  516 

Last  of  his  Tribe,  The H.  Kendall  627 

Last  of  the  Eurydice,  The. .  .Sir  J.  Paton  391 

Later  Life  (extracts) C.  Rossetti  379 

Lattice  at  Sunrise,  The Turner  192 

Laughter  and  Death Blunt  491 

Laura's  Song O.  M .  Brown  541 

Laus  Infantitim Canton  501 

Law  of  the  Jungle Kipling  599 

Lay  of  the  Laborer,  The Hood  121 

Lear....   Hood  117 

Lefroy  in  the  Forest  (from  "  Tecum- 

seh  ") Mair  641 

Legend,  A M.Kendall  578 

Legend  of  the  Dead  Lambs,  The 

Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton  383 

Le  Mauvais  Larron R.  Watson  572 

Leonardo's  "  Monna  Lisa  " Dowden  294 

Lesson  of  Mercy,  A Murray  645 

Let  me  be  with  Thee C.  Elliott  169 

Letter  from  Newport,  A F.  Myers  292 

Lettice M.  Field  520 

Letty 's  Globe Turner  193 

Life Little  575 

Life B.  Procter  20 

Life Swain  76 

Life  and  Death D.  Scott  671 

Life-Drama,  A  (extracts) Alex.  Smith  166 

Life  is  Love Fox  113 

Life's  Hebe J.  Thomson  386 

Light G.  Macdonald  163 

Light  of  Asia,  The  (extract) 

Sir  E.Arnold  247 

Lilian  Adelaide  Neilson C.  Scott  334 

Lines  by  a  Person  of  Quality Nichols  555 

Lion's  Skeleton,  The Turner  191 

Litany ' Monsell  177 

Little  Aglae Landor  8 

Little  Child's  Hymn,  A Palgrave  240 

Little  Fair  Soul,  The Smedley  219 

Little  Rebel.  The Ashby-Sterry  472 

Little  Song,  A D.  Scott  669 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


733 


Little  While,  A Bonar  111 

Little  While,  A D.  Rossetti  398 

London Davidson  560 

London  Bridge Weatherly  508 

London  Feast Rhys  580 

London  Plane-Tree,  A Levy  579 

Long  White  Seam,  The Ingelow  327 

Loons,  The Lampman  661 

Lorraine Kingsley  311 

Lost  hut  Found Bonar  175 

Lost  Leader,  The -B.  Browning  350 

Lost  Sheep,  The Clephane  182 

Lotos-Eaters,  The A.  Tennyson  194 

Louis  XV Sterling  61 

Love Adams  127 

Love  and  Death Mulholland  560 

Love  and  Music P.  Marston  445 

Love  and  War Martin  631 

Love  and  Youth Linton  149 

Love  at  Sea Swinburne  420 

Love  goes  a-Hawking Beddoes  39 

Love  in  Exile  (extract) Blind  522 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly Allingham  317 

Love  Not Norton  94 

Lover's  Diary,  A  (extracts) Parker  671 

Love's  Autumn Payne  435 

Love's  Blindness Linton  149 

Lovesight    (from    "  The    House    of 

Life  ") D.  Rossetti  395 

Love's  Music P.  Marston  442 

Love's    Outset    (from    "  A     Lover's 

Diary  ") Parker  671 

Love's  Poor Le  Gallienne  593 

Love's  Secret  Name Blaikie  569 

Love's  Spite De  Vere  69 

"  Love-Trilogy,  A ' '  (extract) Blind  522 

"  Lo,  we  have  left  All " Lyte  174 

Lucifer  and  Elissa  (from  "  Festus  ") 

Bailey  161 

Lucifer  in  Starlight G.  Meredith  374 

Lucile  (extract) Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton  383 

Lux  est  Umbra  Dei Symonds  273 

Lying  in  the  Grass Gosse  511 

Lyrical  Poem,  The Garnett  331 

Macaulay Landor  12 

Mahmud    and    Ayaz     (from    "  With 

Sa'di  in  the  Garden").  ..Sir  E.  Arnold  250 

Mahogany  Tree,  The Thackeray  306 

Maid's  Lament,  The Landor  11 

Malzah    and    the    Angel    Zelehtha 

(from  "  Saul  ") Heavysege  637 

Man Landor  16 

Mano :  A  Poetical  History  (extracts)  Dixon  400 

Man  to  the  Angel,  The G.  Russell  606 

Marching  Along R.  Browning  343 

Mare  Mediterraneum Nichol  254 

Margaret Landor  12 

Margaret  Love  Peacock Peacock  47 

Marian Ashe  266 

Marian  Drury Carman  662 

Marie  de  MeYanie  (extract) J.  Marston  452 

Marlow  Madrigal,  A Ashby-Sterry  471 

Married  Lover,  The  (from  "  The  An- 
gel in  the  House  ")  Patmore  234 

Marsyas.    C.  Roberts  652 

Mary  Arden E.  Mackay  530 


Mary  Magdalene  (from   "Sonnets  on 

Pictures  ")  D.  Rossetti  397 

Massacre  of  the  Macpherson Aytoun  46 

Master-Chord,  The Roscoe  231 

Master-Knot,  The  (from  "The  Ru- 
baiyat of  Omar  Khayyam  ") .  FitzGerald  341 

Master's  Touch,  The Bonar  177 

Match,  A Swinburne  417 

Maud  (extract) A.  Tennyson  208 

Mawgan  of  Melhuach Hawker  40 

May  Margaret T.  Marzials  516 

May  Song,  A Lady  Currie  295 

Meditations  of  a  Hindu  Prince Lyall  262 

Meeting  at  Night R.  Browning  354 

Meeting  of  Orion  and  Artemis  (from 

"  Orion  ") R.  Rome  30 

Melencolia  (from  ' '  The  City  of  Dread- 
ful Night  ") J.  Thomson  385 

Melting  of  the  Earl's  Plate Thornbury  320 

Melville  and  Coghill Lang  498 

Memorabilia R.  Browning  358 

Memorial  Verses M.  Arnold.  228 

Memories Japp  277 

Memory Landor  16 

Memory Earl  of  Rosslyn  256 

Memory  of  the  Dead,  The Ingram  102 

Mendicants,  The Carman  665 

Men  of  Gotham,  The Peacock  47 

Merry-Go-Round,  The .Noel  261 

Midsummer's  Noon  in  the  Australian 

Forest,  A Harpur  615 

Mimnermus  in  Church Cory  231 

Minor    Poet,    A    (from    "  A    Life- 
Drama  ") Alex.  Smith  167 

Misconceptions R.  Browning  364 

Miss  Kilmansegg  and  Her  Precious 

Leg  (extracts) Hood  117 

Mitherless  Bairn,  The Thorn  82 

Model,  A Radford  602 

Modern  Love  (extracts) G.  Meredith  371 

Modern  Poet,  The Meynell  538 

Monna  Innominata  (extracts) . .  C.  Rossetti  378 

Montreal Schuyler-Lighthall  649 

More  Ancient  Mariner,  A Carman  664 

Morning-Song Darley  17 

Mother  and  Poet E.  Browning  137 

Motherless  (from  "  Aurora  Leigh  ") 

E.  Browning  139 

Mother's  Love Burbidge  71 

Mother -Song  (from  "Prince  Luci- 
fer")   Austin  265 

Mother  wept Skipsey  329 

Moving  Finger  writes,  The  (from 
"The  Rubaiyat-  of  Omar  Khay- 
yam ") FitzGerald  342 

Mr.  Barney  Maguire's  Account  of  the 

Coronation Barham  52 

Muckle-Mou'd  Meg Ballantine  83 

Muckle-Mouth  Meg -R.  Browning  364 

"  Multum  dilexit " H .  Coleridge  58 

Musical  Instrument,  A E.  Browning  134 

Music-Hail,  The Wrat islaw  607 

Music  Lesson,  A Japp  276 

Musmee,  The Sir  E.  Arnold  251 

My  Ain  Wife Laing  79 

My  Bath Blackie  84 

My  Beautiful  Lady. .Woolner  391 


734 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


My  Epitaph Gray  272 

My  Guide Savage-Armstrong  300 

My  Heart  and  I E.  Browning  130 

My  Heart  is  a  Lute Lady  Lindsay  336 

My  Last  Duchess E.  Browning  344 

My  Little  Dear Eadford  602 

My  Lord  Tomnoddy .Brough  468 

My  Mother W.  B.  Scott  146 

Myrtis  (extract) Landor  7 

Mystery,  The. Savage-Armstrong  299 

Myth,  A Kingsley  309 

My  Times  are  in  Thy  Hand Hall  180 

Nancy  Dawson H.  Borne  592 

Nancy  Lee Weatherly  508 

Naseby,  The  Battle  of Macaulay  27 

Nearer  to  Thee Adams  127 

Nell  Gwynne's  Looking-Glass 

Blanchard  125 

Nephon's  Song Darley  18 

Net-Braiders,  The Wade  126 

Newly-Wedded,  The Praed  49 

New  Poet,  A Canton  501 

News  to  the  King  (from  "Songs  from 

Dramas  ") Webster  462 

New  Year's  Eve  —  Midnight 

F.Macdonald  506 

New  Zealand  Regret,  A . . .  E.  Montgomery  632 
Night  has  a  thousand  Eyes,  The 

Bourdillon  533 

Nightingale,  The Symonds  273 

Night  Sky,  The C.  Roberts  651 

"  Ninety  and  Nine,  The  " Clephane  182 

Niobe  (extract) F.  Tennyson  189 

Nirvana    (from     "The    Light     of 

Asia") Sir  E.  Arnold  247 

Nocturne Griffin  91 

No  Death P.  Marston  445 

Norns  Watering  Yggdrasill,  The 

W.  B.  Scott  146 
Northern  Farmer  (Old  Style) 

A.  Tennyson  204 

Nor'-West  Courier,  The Logan  643 

November's  Cadence. . .  .Earl  of  Southesk  315 

Nuptial  Eve,  A Dobell  366 

October Eadford  603 

Ode  —  Autumn Hood  119 

Ode  on  Conflicting  Claims Dixon  399 

Ode   on  the   Death  of  the   Duke  of 

Wellington A.  Tennyson  200 

Ode  to  Mother  Carey's  Chicken Watts  267 

Ode  —  To  the  Roc  (from  "  The  Para- 
dise of  Birds") .• . . .  Courthope  472 

Odyssey,  The Lang  497 

Of  Alice  in  Wonderland Dodgson  479 

Of  a  Vision  of  Hell,  which  a  Monk  had 

(from  "  Mano  ") Dixon  400 

Of  Blue  China Lang  496 

Of  his  Choice  of  a  Sepulchre Lang  497 

Of  Life Lang  496 

"  O  Fons  BandusiaB  " Dobson  488 

Of    Temperance    in     Fortune    (from 

"  Mano  ") Dixon  401 

Of  the  Book-Hunter Lang  496 

Of  the   Passing    Away  of    Brynhild 

(from  "Sigurd the  Volsung ").  W. Morris  410 


Ohnawa  (from  "  De  Roberval ") 

Hunter-Duvar  638 
Oh !    where    do    Fairies    hide    their 

Heads  ? Bayly  73 

Old  and  Young Bourdillon  533 

Old  Baron,  The T.  Miller  64 

Old  Cavalier,  The Sir  F.  Doyle  302 

Old  Churchyard  of  Bonchurch,  The 

P.  Marston  444 

Old  Grenadier's  Story,  The Thornbury  322 

OldMaid,The G.  Barlow  507 

Old  Man's  Song,  An Le  Gallienne  594 

Old  Song  Resung,  An Yeats  604 

Old  Souls Hake  337 

Old  Squire.  The Blunt  492 

Old  Stoic,  The. E.  Bronte  153 

O  Lord,  Thy  Wing  outspread. ..... .Blew  181 

Olrig  Grange  (extract) =  W.  Smith  236 

Om G.  Russell  606 

Omar  and  the  Persian Williams  335 

"  O  may  I  join  the  Choir  Invisible  ".Cross  155 

O.  M.  B F.  Madox  Brown  390 

On  a  Fan Dobson  487 

On  a  Grave  at  Griiidelwald F.  Myers  292 

•  On  a  Lute  found  in  a  Sarcophagus.  ..Gosse  512 

On  an  Old  Muff Locker-Lampson  466 

On  an  Urn Garnett  332 

On  a  Thrush  singing  hi  Autumn 

Sir  L.  Morris  257 

"O  Navis" Dobson  488 

On  a  Young  Poetess's  Grave  . .  .Buchanan  283 

On  Calais  Sands Lang  500 

On  Diirer's  Melenco/ia W.  Watson  565 

One  Face  alone  (from  "  Phantasmion  ") 

S.  Coleridge  60 

One  in  the  Infinite Savage- Armstrong  300 

One  Twilight  Hour    (from    "Modern 

Love  ") G.  Meredith  371 

One  Way  of  Love E.  Browning  359 

One  White  Hair,  The Landor  15 

One  Word  More R.  Browning  359 

On  Himself Landor  15 

On  Living  too  long Landor  16 

On  Lucretia  Borgia's  Hair Landor  15 

On  Music Landor  12 

On,  on,  forever Martineau  125 

On  the  Bridge Ropes  569 

On  the  Brink Calvcrley  470 

On  the  Cliffs  (extract) Swinburne  427 

On  the  Death  of  M.  D'Ossoli  and  his 

Wife  Margaret  Fuller Landor  13 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Browning Dobell  370 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and 

George  Eliot Swinburne  428 

On  the  Monument,  erected  to  Mazzini 

at  Genoa Swinburne  433 

Orbits Le  Gallienne  593 

Orion Turner  193 

Orion  (extracts) R.  Home  30 

Ottawa D.  Scott  669 

Our  Casuarina  Tree Dutt  545 

Our  Cause Linton  148 

Overture   (from    "  The  Rubaiyat  of 

Omar  Khayyam  ") FitzGerald  340 

Overture   (from   "Thrasymedes    and 

Eunoe  ") Landor  3 

0 wd  Finder Waugh  1 10 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


735 


O  Wind  of  the  Mountain  ! Westwood  213 

Oxus  (from  "  Sohrab  and  Rustum") 

M.Arnold  223 

O  Youth  whose  Hope  is  High Bridges  439 

Page  of  Lancelot,  The M.  Kendall  578 

Palermo  (from  "  The  Disciples  ")  . .  .King  388 
Pantheist's  Song  of  Immortality,  The 

Naden  562 

Parable  of  the  Spirit,  A Goodchild  528 

"  Paracelsus,"  Song  from. .  .R.  Browning  343 

Paradise .Faber  179 

Paradise  Enow  (from  "  The  Rubaiyat 

of  Omar  Khayyam"  ) FitzGerald  340 

Paradise  of  Birds,  The  (extracts) 

Courthope  472 

Paraphrases Lang  498 

Parting  at  Morning. R.  Browning  354 

Parting  Hour,  The distance  612 

Parting    of  King  Philip    and  Marie, 

The  (from  "Marie  de  Me'ranie  ") 

J.  Marston  452 

Passer-By,  A. Bridges  438 

Passing  and  Glassing C.  Rossetti  378 

Passing  of  Arthur,  The A.  Tennyson  208 

Passionate  Reader  to  his  Poet,  The 

Le  Gallienne  594 

Pastoral,  A T.  Marzials  515 

Pastoral,  A Nichols  555 

"  Pater  Vester  pascit  Ilia  " Hawker  40 

Patience Linton  147 

Patriarchal  Home,  The  (from  "  Joseph 

and  his  Brethren  ") Wells  23 

Peace  !  what  do  Tears  avail?.  .B.  Procter  20 

Pelters  of  Pyramids R.  Home  35 

Pen  and  the  Album,  The Thackeray  305 

People's  Petition,  The Call  152 

Per  Pacem  ad  Lucem A.  Procter  313 

Persistence Landor  15 

Peschiera Clough  216 

Petition  to  Time,  A B.  Procter  22 

Pillar  of  the  Cloud,  The Newman  59 

Pine  Woods,  The Lord  Hanmer  65 

Pipe-Player,  The Gosse  513 

"Pippa  Passes,"    Song  from 

E.  Browning  348 

Pirate  Story Stevenson  523 

Phantasmion  (extracts) ....  Sara  Coleridge  60 
Phantom  Caravan,  The   (from  "The 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam  ") 

FitzGerald  341 

Phantoms Ashe  266 

Philip,  my  King Craik  314 

Philip  Van  Artevelde  (extracts) 

Sir  H.  Taylor  25 

Philomela M.  Arnold  225 

Phraxanor  to  Joseph  (from  "  Joseph 

and  his  Brethren  ") Wells  23 

Place  in  thy  Memory,  A Griffin  90 

Play  of  "  King  Lear,"  The. . .  W.  Watson  565 

Plays Landor  12 

Plough,  The R.  Horne  36 

Poem  of  the  Universe,  The Weldon  153 

Poet,  The  (from  "  Festus  ") Bailey  159 

Poeta  Nascitur Ashe  267 

Poet  in  the  City,  The Liddell  511 

Poet's  Epitaph,  A E.  Elliott  112 


Poet's  Song  to  his  Wife,  The  . . B.  Procter  20 
Poets,  The  (from   "Aurora  Leigh") 

E.  Browning  139 

Poet's  Thought,  A B.  Procter  22 

Polly Rands  476 

Poor  French  Sailor's  Scottish  Sweet- 
heart, A Cory  232 

Poor  Withered  Rose Bridges  437 

Pope  at  Twickenham Kent  230 

Portrait,  A Ashby-Sterry  471 

Portrait,  The D.  Rosselti  394 

Praeterita  ex  Instantibus 

Schuyler-Lighthall  648 

Prayer H.  Coleridge  57 

Prayer,  A A.  Bronte  181 

Prayer,  A Image  591 

Prayers Beeching  554 

Prayer  to  the  Trinity Edmeston  170 

Priest,  A Gale  584 

Primrose  Dame,  A White  527 

"  Prince  Lucifer,"  Songs  from Austin  264 

Prince  Riquet's  Song  (from  "  Riquet 

of  the  Tuft ") Brooke  254 

"  Princess,  The,"  Songs  from 

A.  Tennyson  199 

Private  of  the  Buffs,  The . . .  .Sir  F.  Doyle  302 

Pro  Mortuis Palgrave  239 

Prophecy,  A Landor  14 

Prospice R.  Browning  363 

Protest,  A dough  214 

Protestation,  The Image  590 

Pure  Hypothesis,  A M.  Kendall  577 

Pygmalion W.  B.  Scott  146 

Pygmalion  and  Galatea  (extract) . . .  Gilbert  457 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus Clough  214 

Queen's  Song  (from  "  Riquet  of  the 

Tuft ") Brooke  254 

Queen's  Vespers,  The De  Vere  70 

Quiet  Eye,  The Cook  11 

Realism Benson  583 

Rachel  (from  "  Joseph  and  his  Brethren  ") 

Wells  22 

Raglan Sir  E.  Arnold  250 

Ready,  ay.  Ready Merivale  461 

Red  Poppies  (from  "Sospiri  di  Roma") 

Sharp  548 

Reed-Player,  The D.  Scott  670 

Regina  Coeli Patmore  236 

Regret Le  Gallienne^  593 

Remember C.  Rossetti  376 

Remember  or  Forget Aid6  328 

Renouncement Meynell  539 

Renunciants Dowden  293 

Requiem Sir  J.  Paton  390 

Requiem Stevenson  526 

Requital,  The A.  Procter  313 

Respectability R.  Browning  358 

Rest M.  Woods  592 

Revel,  The Dowling  101 

Reverses Newman  59 

Revolutions  (from  "  Philip  van  Arte- 
velde ") Sir  H.  Taylor  25 

Richelieu  (extract) Lord  Lylton  42 

Ride  on  in  Majesty Hitman  171 

Right  must  win,  The Faber  179 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


"  Riquet  of  the  Tuft,"  Songs  from .  Brooke  254 

Rizpah A.  Tennyson  209 

Robert  Browning Landor  13 

Romance Lang  497 

Roman  Legions,  The Mitfora  67 

Roman  Mirror.  A If  odd  563 

Romanzo  to  Sylvia Darley  18 

Romney  and  Aurora  (from   "  Aurora 

Leigh  ") E.  Browning  142 

Rondeau  to  Ethel,  A Dobson  484 

Rookery,  The Turner  192 

Rory  O'More  ;  or,  Good  Omens. . .  .Lover  88 

Rosamond  (extract) Swinburne  420 

Rosa  Rosarum Darmesteter  557 

Rose  and  the  Wind,  The P.  Marston  443 

Rose  Aylmer Landor  10 

Rose  Aylmer's    Hair,    given    by  her 

Sister Landor  10 

Rose  of  the  World,  The Yeats  604 

Roses'  Song P.  Marston  445 

Rose  thou  gav'st,  The Swain  77 

Rosy  Musk-Mallow,  The A.  Gillington  609 

Roundel,  The Swinburne  431 

Rubaiyat   of  Omar    Khayyam,    The 

(extracts  from  his  Paraphrase  of) 

FitzGerald  340 

Rus  in  Urbe C.  Scott  334 

Ruth Hood  119 

Sack  of  Baltimore,  The Davis  97 

Sad  Mother,  The Hinkson  576 

Sailing  beyond  Seas Ingelow  326 

Sailor,  The Allingham  318 

Saint  Paul  (extract) F.  Myers  291 

Saint's  Tragedy,  The  (extracts) . .  Kingsley  308 

Salopia  Inhospitalis Sladen  552 

Samson F,  Scott  656 

Sands  of  Dee,  The Kingsley  309 

San  Terenzo Lang  497 

Sanyassi,  The Hamerton  258 

Sappho  (from  "  On  the  Cliffs  ' ') .  Swinburne  427 

Saul  (extracts) Heavysege  635 

Scheme  Rothraut Goodchild  527 

Scot  to  Jeanne  D'Arc,  A Lang  499 

Scythe  Song Lang  498 

Sea,  The B.  Procter  19 

Sea  Ballad  (from  "  Balder") Dobell  368 

Sea  Child,  A Carman  662 

Sea-Child,  The Cook  78 

Sea  Fowler,  The M.  Howitt  74 

"  Sea-Maids'  Music,  The  " E.  Myers  299 

Sea-Marge  (from  "  A  Life-Drama  ") 

Alex.  Smith  167 

Sea-Limits,  The D.  Rossetti  398 

Sea-Shell  Murmurs Lee-Hamilton  505 

Sea  Slumber-Song Noel  260 

Sea  Story,  A Hickey  502 

Seat  for  Three,  A Crane  503 

Secret,  The Monkhouse  278 

Secret  of  the  Nightingale,  The Noel  259 

Secret  Place,  The Lyte  174 

Seed  Time  Hymn Eeble  172 

Self- Discipline G.  Russell  605 

Self-Exiled,  The W.  Smith  237 

September Harrison  6(58 

September  in  Australia H.  Kendall  626 

Seven  Whistlers,  The A,  Gillington  608 


Shakespeare Sterling  fc'l 

Shakespeare  and  Milton Landor  12 

Shameful  Death W.  Morris  403 

Shandon  Bells,  The Mahony  55 

Sheep  and  Lambs Hinkson  575 

Shell,  The  (from  "  Maud  ") .  .  A .  Tennyson  208 

Shelley Japp  276 

Shepherd  Maiden,  A Lefroy  541 

She  wore  a  Wreath  of  Roses Bayly  73 

Sibyl Payne  434 

Sibyl,  The Hake  338 

Sicilian  Night,  A Lefroy  542 

Sick  Stock-Rider,  The Gordon  619 

Sign  of  the  Cross,  The Newman  58 

Sigurd  the  Volsung  (extract) . . .  W.  Morris  410 

Silenced  Singer,  The Linton  150 

Silences O' 'Shaughnessy  441 

Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau,  The ....  Hawker  41 

Silent  Voices,  The A.  Tennyson  212 

Simple  Maid,  A Lord  De  Tabley  415 

Singer's  Prelude,  The  (from  ''  The 

Earthly  Paradise  ") W.  Morris  404 

Singing  Stars Hinkson  576 

Sir  Galahad A,  Tennyson  197 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 

A.  Tennyson  198 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  to  a  Caged  Linnet 

Lee-Hamilton  504 
Sister  Mary  of  the  Love  of  God 

Mulholland  560 

Sit  down,  Sad  Soul B.  Procter  21 

Six  Carpenters'  Case,  The . .  Sir  F.  Pollock  474 
Skeleton  in  the  Cupboard,  The 

Locker-Lampson  467 

Skylark,  The  (from  "  Mano  ") Dixon  400 

Slave,  The R.  Home  36 

Sleep,  The. E.  Browning  142 

Snowshoeing  Song Weir  674 

Snow  Storm,  The Wetherald  676 

Soggarth  Aroon .Banim  90 

Sohrab  and  Rustum  (extracts). M.  Arnold  221 

Soldier-Boy,  The Mac/inn  55 

Solitude  and  the  Lily R.  aarne  36 

Solway  Sands Crainmyle  579 

Song Blaikie  569 

Song E.  Bronte  153 

Song • Carman  666 

Song H.  Coleridge  57 

Song De  Vere  70 

Song G.  Macdonald  164 

Song Monkhouse  277 

Song Sir  L.  Morris  257 

Song Sharp  549 

Song,  A F.  Myers  292 

Song :  Down  lay  in  a  Nook. .  Sir  H.  Taylor  26 

Song  for  Music Gosse  514 

Song  (from  "  Paracelsus  ")  .  .R.  Browning  343 
Song  (from  "  Pippa  Passes  ") 

R.  Browning  348 
Song  (from  "  The  Saint's  Tragedy  ") 

Kingslfy  307 

Song :  How  many  Times Beddoes  37 

Song  in  Imitation  of  the  Elizabethans 

W.  Watson  568 

Song  in  "  The  Foresters  " A.  Tennyson  211 

Song :  My  Fair,  no  Beauty  of  thine .  Meynell  538 

Song  my  Paddle  Sings,  The Johnson  673 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


737 


Song  of  Faith  Forsworn,  A 

Lord  De  Tabley  416 

Soner  of  Farewell,  A Greenwell  162 

Song  of  the  Kings  of  Gold .  Ebenezer  Jones  157 

Song  of  the  Night  at  Daybreak . . .  Meynell  539 

Song  of  the  Old  Mother,  The Y eats  605 

Song  of  the  Shirt,  The Hood  120 

Song  of  the  Sq  uatter Sherbrooke  616 

Song  of  the  Western  Men,  The . . .  Hawker  40 
Song  of  the  Wild  Storm- Waves,  The 

Sinnett  628 

Song  of  the  Wulf  shaw  Larches Rhys  582 

Song  of  the  Zincali  (from  "  The  Span- 
ish Gypsy  ") Cross  155 

Song  of  Winter,  A Pfeiffer  290 

Song :  Quoth  Tongue  of  neither  Maid 

nor  Wife Sir  H.  Taylor  26 

Songs'  End Payne  436 

Songs  from  Dramas Webster  462 

Song  :  This  Peach  is  Pink Gale  584 

Song  :  To  Psyche  (from  "  The  Earthly 

Paradise  ") W.  Morris  409 

Song  :  Wait  but  a  Little  While Gale  584 

Song  without  a  Sound  (from  "  With 

Sa'di  in  the  Garden  ").  ...Sir  E.  Arnold  250 

Sonnet Lady  Lindsay  336 

Sonnet Trench  64 

Sonnet,  A J.K.  Stephen  572 

Sonnet,  The Symonds  275 

Sonnets  (from   "A  Lover's   Diary") 

Parker  671 
Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  (extracts) 

E.  Browning  131 
"  Sonnets  of  the  Wingless  Hours,"  On 

his Lee-Hamilton  505 

Sonntts  on  Pictures D.  Rossetti  397 

Sonnet's  Voice,  The Watts  269 

Sorrow De  Vere  69 

Sorrows  of  Werther Thackeray  305 

"  Sospiri  di  Roma  "  (extracts) Sharp  548 

So  Sweet  Love  seemed Bridges  439 

Soul  and  Body Waddington  297 

Soul  and  Country Mangan  92 

Soul  Stithy,  The J.  Woods  301 

Sower's  Song,  The T.  Carlyle  80 

Spaewife,  The Stevenson  525 

"Spanish  Gypsy,  The,"  Songs  from 

Cross  155 

Spectrum,  The Monkhouse  278 

Spinning- Wheel  Song,  A Waller  95 

Spirit  of  Shakespeare,  The . . .  G.  Meredith  374 

Splendid  Spur,  The Quiller-Couch  586 

Spring  and  Autumn Linton  149 

Spring's  Immortality Bell  545 

Spring  Song Carman  663 

Spring  Song  in  the  City Buchanan  281 

Standing  on  Tiptoe Cameron  646 

Stanzas :  Often  rebuked E.  Bronte  154 

Stanzas :  Farewell,  Life Hood  123 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of   Thomas 

Hood Simmons  113 

Stormy  Petrel,  The B.  Procter  20 

Sudden  Light D.  Rossetti  397 

Sufficiency White  527 

Summer  Day,  A Beeching  553 

Summer  Days Call  152 

Summer  Pool,  The Buchanan  283 


Summer  Winds Darley  17 

Sunken  Gold Lee- Hamilton  505 

Sunset  on  the  Cunimbla  Valley,  Blue 

Mountains Sladen  552 

Superscription,  A  (from  "  The  House 

of  Life  ") D.  Rossetti  397 

Sursum    Corda    (from    "  Casa    Guidi 

Windows  ") .E.  Browning  13c 

Susan :  A  Poem  of  Degrees  (extract) 

Munby  246 
Susurro  (from  "  Sospiri  di  Roma  ") 

Sharp  548 

Swallow,   The Aird  83 

Sweet  and  Low A.  Tennyson  199 

Sweetheart  Gate,  Th' Waugh  109 

Sweet  Nature's  Voice  (from  "  Susan  ") 

Munby  246 
"Sylvia;  or  the  May-Queen,"   Songs 

from Darley  17 

Take  me,  Mother  Earth Jameson  58 

Take  the  World  as  it  is  Swain  76 

Tamar  and  the  Nymph  (from  "  Gebir  ") 

Land  or  8 

Teach  us  to  die Stanley  180 

Tears,  Idle  Tears A.  Tennyson  199 

Tecumseh:  A  Drama  (extracts) Mair  641 

Telling  the  Bees Lang  498 

Tell  me  not  of  Morrows,  Sweet  (from 

"  Songs  from  Dramas  ") Webster  463 

Tell  me,  ye  Winged  Winds C.  Mackay  87 

Tempera  Acta  (from  "  Babylonia  ") 

Robert,  Earl  of  Lytton  382 

Tennyson Huxley  241 

Test,  The Landor  13 

Thaisa's  Dirge Merivale  462 

"  That  they  all  may  be  one  " Noel  262 

Then  and  now Rodd  5(54 

Theocritus '. .  Gosse  514 

Theocritus Langhorne  49 

There    falls     with    every    Wedding 

Chime Landor  12 

There  is  a  Green  Hill Alexander  182 

Thirty-first  of  May F.  Tennyson  187 

Thorgerda Payne  435 

Thou  didst  delight  my  Eyes Bridges  438 

Thought,  A Landor  16 

Thought,  A J.  K.  Stephen  571 

Thrasymedes  and  Eunoe  (extract) .  Landor  3 

Thread  of  Life,  The C.  Rossetti  379 

Three  Fishers,  The Kingsley  309 

Three  Portraits  of  Prince  Charles . . .  Lang  499 

Three  Scars,  The Tharnbury  320 

Three  Troopers,  The Thornbury  321 

Threnody,  A ;   in  Memory  of  Albert 

Darasz  (extract) Linton  148 

Thy  Joy  in  Sorrow Townshend  58 

Thyself Symonds  275 

Thy  Voice  is  heard A.  Tennyson  200 

Thy  Way,  not  mine Bonar  176 

Time F.  Scott  656 

Time  and  Death Whitworth  72 

Time  to  be  Wise Landor  15 

Tipperary Kelly  105 

'Tis  Sairto  dream Gilfillan  80 

To Alex.  'Smith  168 

To  a  Child Sterling  62 


738 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


To  a  Cyclamen Landor  8 

To  a  Daisy Hartley  501 

To  a  Desolate  Friend Dawson  536 

To  Age Landor  10 

To  a  Greek  Girl Dobson  488 

To  a  Humming  Bird  in  a  Garden.  .Murray  644 

To  Alfred  Tennyson Hawker  41 

To  America Garnett  332 

To  a  Moth  that  drinketh  of  the  Ripe 

October Pfeiffer  290 

To  a  Mountain H.  Kendall  624 

To  a  Poet  breaking  Silence . .  F.  Thompson  569 

To  a  Portrait Symons  601 

ToaSeabird W.  Watson  565 

Toast  to  Omar  Khayydm Watts  270 

To    a    Swallow    building   under    our 

Eaves J.  Carlyle  62 

To  Christina  Rossetti Greenwell  163 

To  Daphne Besant  336 

To  February Wetherald  676 

To  God  and  Ireland  True O'Leary  328 

To  laiithe Landor  13 

To  Imperia Burbidge  70 

To  La  Sanscceur Eoscoe  231 

To    Manon  —  Comparing    her    to    a 

Falcon Blunt  491 

To  Manon — OnherLightheartedness.-B/unt  491 

Tommy  's  Dead. Dobell  367 

To  my  Brothers Gale  586 

To  my  Cat E.  Watson  574 

To  my  Grandmother Locker-Lampson  465 

To  my  Mistress Locker-Lampson  467 

To  my  Tortoise  Chronos. . .  .Lee-Hamilton  504 

To  my  Totem Beeching  553 

To  N.  V.  de  G.  S Stevenson  524 

Too  Late Craik  314 

Too  Late Linton  149 

Topsy-Turvy  World Bands  476 

To  R.  K J.  K.  Stephen  571 

Torrismond   (extracts) Beddoes  37 

To  Sea.  to  Sea  ! Beddoes  38 

To  Shakespeare H.  Coleridge  57 

To  Sleep Landor  16 

To  the  Dead W.  B.  Scott  147 

To  the  Forgotten  Dead M.  Woods  592 

To  the  Gossamer-Light Turner  193 

To  the  Herald  Honeysuckle Pfeiffer  291 

To  the  Lakes W.  Campbell  654 

To  the  Nautilus H.  Coleridge  56 

To  Theocritus,  in  Winter Lang  495 

To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry P.  Marston  441 

To  Vernon  Lee Levy  579 

Toy  Cross,  The Noel  262 

To  Youth Landor  9 

Toys,    The    (from    "  The    Unknown 

Eros  ") Patmore  235 

Travellers Addleshaw  611 

Tripping  down  the  Field-Path Swain  76 

Triumph    of     Joseph,     The    (from 

"  Joseph  and  his  Brethren  ") Wells  24 

Tropics,  The Sladen  552 

Trust C.  Rossetti  378 

Trust  thou  thy  Love Euskin  157 

Tryst  of  the  Night,  The M.  Byron  607 

Tuscan  Cypress  (extracts) Darmesteter  557 

'T  was  just  before  the  Hay  was  mown 

Swain  77 


'Tween  Earth  and  Sky  (from  "Songs 

from  Dramas") Webster  462 

Twickenham  Ferry T.  Marzials  515 

Twilight Custance  612 

Twilight Heavysege  637 

Twilight  Song  (from  "  De  Roberval ") 

Hunter-Duvar  640 

Twist  me  a  Crown C.  Eossetti  379 

Two  Deserts,   The  (from   "  The  Un- 
known Eros  ") Patmore  236 

Two  Infinities Dowden  294 

Two  Masks,  The G.  Meredith  375 

Two  Old  Kings,  The Lord  De  Tabley  417 

Two  Sonnet-Songs F.  Marzials  493 

Two  Sons Buchanan  283 

Ulysses A.   Tennyson  196 

Unknown  Eros,  The  (extract) ....  Patmore  235 
Unseen    World,   The    (extracts) 

C.  Eossetti  376 

Up-Hill C.  Eossetti  377 

Upon  the  Shore Bridges  437 

Utmost,  The Eobert,  Earl  of  Lytton  384 

Vacant  Cage,  The Turner  191 

Vagabonds,  The Johnson  674 

Vain  Desire,  A Wratislaw  607 

Vain  Wish,  A P.  Marston  442 

Valedictory Gordon  621 

Van  Elsen F.  Scott  657 

Vastness A.  Tennyson  211 

Venetian  Pastoral,  A  (from  "Sonnets 

on  Pictures  ") D.  Eossetti  397 

Venice Symonds  274 

Versailles Brooke  252 

Verses  why  burnt Landor  16 

Vicar,  The Pra-d  48 

Violinist,  A Bourdillon  533 

Vision  of  Children,  A Ashe  267 

Voice  from  Galilee,  The Bonar  176 

Voice  in   the   Wild  Oak,   The 

H.Kendall  627 

Voice  of  D.  G.  R.,  The Gosse  514 

Voice  of  the  Poor,  The Lady  Wilde  104 

Waif,  The A.  C.  Smith  629 

Wake  of  Tfm  O'Hara,  The. . .  .Buchanan  282 

Waking  of  Spring,  The Custance  611 

Waking  of  the  Lark,  The E.  Mac/cay  529 

Walker  of  the  Snow,  The Shanly  634 

Warning  and  Reply E.  Bronte  153 

War-Song  of  Dinas  Vawr,  The . . .  Peacock  47 

Water  Lady,  The Hood  119 

We  are  Children Buchanan  2«4 

Weep  not !  Sigh  not ! Linton  149 

We  have  been  Friends  together. . .  .Norton  93 
"  We    have    seen    thee,    0    Love ! " 
(from  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon  ") 

Swinburne  422 

Welcome,  The Davis  99 

Welcome,  Bonny  Brid ! Laycock  110 

We  '11  a'  go  pu'  the  Heather Nicoll  150 

Wellington Beacons  field  213 

Were  I  but  his  own  Wife Downing  106 

Were- Wolves,  The W.  Campbell  655 

What  matters  it Cameron  646 

What  might  be  done C.  Mackay  88 


739 


What  of  the  Night  ? Bowring  173 

What  the  Sonnet  is Lee-Hamilton  505 

What  the  Trumpeter  said Evans  375 

Whaups,  The Stevenson  526 

"  When  I  am  Dead  " Bodd  564 

When  Stars  are  in  the  Quiet  Skies 

Lord  Lytton  43 

"  When    the    Hounds    of    Spring " 
(from   "Atalanta   in  Calydon") 

Swinburne  421 

When  we  are  all  asleep Buchanan  284 

When  we  are  parted Aide  329 

Where  lies  the  Land Clough  218 

White  Birds,  The Yeats  604 

White  Blossom 's  off  the  Bog,  The .  Graves  506 

White  Moth,  The Quiller-Couch  587 

White  Peacock,  The  (from  "Sospiri 

di  Roma  ") Sharp  548 

White  Rose  over  the  Water,  The 

Tkornbury  321 

White  Roses Rhys  582 

Whither? H.  Coleridge  57 

Who  runs  may  read Keble  171 

Widow  Machree Lover  89 

Widow's  Mite,  The Locker-Lampson  466 

Wife  of  Loki,  The Lady  C.  Elliot  535 

Wife  to  Husband C.  Eossetti  376 

Wild  Huntsmen,  The Hamerton  259 

William  Wordsworth Palgrave  240 

Willie  Winkle W.  Miller  86 

Will  of  God,  The Faber  178 

Windflower,  A Carman  665 


26 
675 
520 
514 

396 

485 


Wind  in   the  Pines,  The  (from  "  Ed- 
win the  Fair  ") Sir  H.  Taylor 

Wind  of  Death,  The Wether  aid 

Wind  of  Summer M.  Field 

With  a  Copy  of  Herrick Gosse 

Without  her  (from  "The  House  of 

Life  ") D.  Eossetti 

"  With  Pipe  and  Flute  " Dobson 

With  Sa'di  in  the  Garden  (extracts) 

Sir  E.Arnold    250 
Woman's  Hand,  A  (from  "  A  Lover's 

Diary  ") Parker    672 

Woman's  Question,  A A.  Procter    312 

Wonder-Child,  The Le  Gallienne    594 

Woodland  Grave,  A Lord  De  Tabley    414 

Woodruffe,  The Knox    247 

Woodspurge,  The D.  Eossetti    398 

Woone  Smile  mwore Barnes    106 

Working  Man's  Song,  The Blackie      86 

World  and  Soul G.  Macdonald    164 

World  and  the  Quietist,  The . .  .M.  Arnold    221 

World's  Death-Night,  The J.  Woods    301 

Wreck,  The Buskin    156 

Wrinkles Landor      14 

Written  in  Edinburgh Hallam      68 

Written  in  Emerson's  Essays.  ..M.  Arnold    221 

Young  Windebank M.  Woods  593 

Youth  and  Age W.  B.  Scott  145 

Youth  and  Art B.  Browning  350 

Youth,     Love,    and     Death    (from 

"  Festus  ") Bailey  158 


INDEX   OF   POETS 


ADAMS,  SARAH  FLOWER 127 

ADDLESHAW,  PERCY 611 

"  A.  E."  —  See  George  William  Russell. 

AIDE,  HAMILTON 328 

AIRD,  THOMAS 83 

ALEXANDER,  CECIL  FRANCES 182 

ALFORD,  HENRY 67 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM 31? 

ANDERSON,  ALEXANDER 502 

ANONYMOUS 232 

ARMSTRONG,     G.     F.     SAVAGE.  —  See 
George  Francis  Savage- Armstrong. 

ARNOLD,  SIR  EDWIN 247 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW 221 

ASHBY-&TERRY,  JOSEPH 471 

ASHE,  THOMAS 266 

AUSTIN,  ALFRED 263 

AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  EDMONSTOUNE 44 


BAILEY,  PHILIP  JAMES 

BALLANTINE,  JAMES 

BANIM,  JOHN 

BARHAM,  RICHARD  HARRIS. 
BARING-GOULD,  SABINE. 


158 

83 

90 

50 

183 

BARLOW,  GEORGE 507 

BARLOW,  JANE 587 

BARNES,  WILLIAM 106 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES 73 

BEACONSFIELD,  EARL  OF 213 

BEATTY,  PAKENHAM 539 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL 37 

BEECHING,  HENRY  CHARLES 553 

BELL,  MACKENZIE 545 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  Cox 78 

BENSON,  ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER 582 

BESANT,  SIR  WALTER , 336 

BLACKIE,  JOHN  STUART 84 

BLAIKIE,  JOHN  ARTHUR 569 

BLANCHARD,  LAMAN 125 

BLAND,  EDITH  NESBIT 561 

BLEW,  WILLIAM  JOHN 181 

BLIND,  MATHILDE 522 

BLUNT,  WILFRID  SCAWEN 491 

BONAR,  HORATIUS 175 

BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  WILLIAM 533 

BOWRING,  SIR  JOHN 172 

BRIDGES,  ROBERT 437 

BRONTE,  ANNE 181 

BRONTE,  EMILY 153 

BROOKE,  STOPFORD  AUGUSTUS 252 

BROUGH,  ROBERT  BARNABAS 468 

BROWN,  FORD  MADOX  390 

BROWN,  OLIVER  MADOX 541 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 128 

BROWNING,  ROBERT 343 


BUCHANAN,  ROBERT 279 

BULWER,    LYTTON.  —See   Lord    Lytton 
and  Earl  of  Lytton. 

BURBIDGE,  THOMAS 70 

BYRON,  MARY  C.  G 607 

CALL,  WATHEN  MARKS  WILKS 152 

CALVERLEY,  CHARLES  STUART 469 

CAMERON,  GEORGE  FREDERICK 645 

CAMPBELL,  WILLIAM  WILFRED 654 

CANTON,  WILLIAM 500 

CARLYLE,  JANE  WELSH 62 

CARLYLE,  THOMAS 80 

CARMAN,  BLISS 662 

CARNEGIE,  SIR   JAMES.  —  See   Earl   of 

Southesk. 
"  CARROLL,  LEWIS."  —  See  Charles  Lut- 

widge  Dodqson. 

CASTILLA,  ETHEL 632 

CLARKE,  HERBERT  EDWIN 533 

CLEPHANE,  ELIZABETH  CECILIA 182 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH 214 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY 56 

COLERIDGE,  SARA 60 

COLLINS,  MORTIMER 315 

COOK,  ELIZA 77 

COOPER,  THOMAS 127 

"CORNWALL,    BARRY."  —  See     Bryan 

Waller  Procter. 

CORY,  WILLIAM  JOHNSON 231 

COTTERELL,  GEORGE 494 

COUCH,    A.    T.    QUILLER.  —  See   A.   T. 

Quiller-Couch. 

COURTHOPE,  WILLIAM  JOHN 472 

CRAIGMYLE,  ELIZABETH 579 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MARIA  MULOCK 314 

CRANE,   WALTER 503 

CRAWFORD,  ISABELLA  VALANCE Y 646 

CRAWFORD,  LOUISA  MACARTNEY 301 

CROSS,  MARY  ANN  EVANS  (LEWES) 155 

CURRIE,  LADY 295 

CUSTANCE,  OLIVE 611 

"  DANE,  BARRY."  —  See  John  E.  Logan. 

DARLEY,  GEORGE 17 

DARMESTETER,  MRS 556 

DAVIDSON,  JOHN 558 

DAVIS,  THOMAS  OSBORNE 97 

DAWSON,  WILLIAM  JAMES 535 

DE  TABLEY,  LORD 414 

DE  VERB,  AUBREY  THOMAS 68 

DICKENS,  CHARLES 307 

DISRAELI,  BENJAMIN.  —  See    Earl  of 

Keacons 'field. 

DIXON,  RICHARD  WATSON 399. 


742 


INDEX  OF   POETS 


DOBELL,  SYDNEY 365 

DOBSON,  AUSTIN    483 

DODGSON,  CHAKLES  LUTWIDOE 478 

DOMETT,  ALFRED 143 

DOWDEN,  EDWARD. - 293 

DOWLJNG,  BARTHOLOMEW 101 

DOWNING,  ELLEN  MARY  PATRICK 106 

DOYLE,  SIR  FRANCIS  HASTINGS 302 

DUFFERIN,  HELEN  SELINA,  LADY 93 

DUFFY,  SIR  CHARLES  GAVAN 100 

DUTT,  TORU 545 

DUVAR,    JOHN    HUNTER.  —  See    John 
Hunter-Duvar. 

EDMESTON,  JAMES , 170 

"ELIOT,  GEORGE."  —  See  (Lewes)  Cross. 

ELLIOT,  LADY  CHARLOTTE 535 

ELLIOTT,  CHARLOTTE.  '. 169 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZER Ill 

EVANS,  SEBASTIAN 375 

FABER,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM 178 

"  FANE,  VIOLET."  —  See  Lady  Currie. 

FERGUSON,  SIR  SAMUEL 96 

FIELD,  MICHAEL 517 

FITZGERALD,  EDWARD 340 

Fox,  WILLIAM  JOHNSON 112 

FRASER-TYTLER,  C.  C.  —  See  Catherine 
C.  Liddell. 

GALE,  NORMAN 584 

GARNETT,  RICHARD 330 

GILBERT,  WILLIAM  SCHWENCK 457 

GILFILLAN,  ROBERT 80 

GILL,  FRANCES  TYRRELL 630 

GILLINGTON,  ALICE  E 608 

GILLINGTON,  M.  C.  —  See  Mary  C.  G.  By- 
ron. 

GOODCHILD,  JOHN  ARTHUR 527 

GORDON,  ADAM  LINDSAY 617 

GOSSE,  EDMUND 511 

GRAVES,  ALFRED  PERCEVAL 506 

GRAY,  DAVID 271 

GREENWELL,  DORA 162 

GRIFFIN,  GERALD 90 

HAKE,  THOMAS  GORDON 337 

HALL,  CHRISTOPHER  NEWMAN 180 

HALLAM,  ARTHUR  HENRY 68 

HAMERTON,  PHILIP  GILBERT 258 

HANMER,  JOHN,  LORD 65 

HARPUR,  CHARLES 615 

HARRISON,  S.  FRANCES 667 

HARTLEY,  JOHN *.  501 

HAVERGAL,  FRANCES  RIDLEY 183 

HAWKER,  ROBERT  STEPHEN 40 

HEAVYSEGE,  CHARLES 635 

41  HEMINGWAY,     PERCY."— See     Percy 
Addleshaw. 

HERVEY,  THOMAS  KIBBLE 75 

HICKEY,  EMILY  HENRIETTA 502 

HINKSON,  KATHARINE  TYNAN 575 

HOME.  F.   WYVILLE 532 

HOOD,  THOMAS 113 

HORNE,  HERBERT  P 591 

HORNE,  RICHARD  HENGIST 30 

HOUGHTON,  LORD 65 


Ho  WITT,  MARY 

HOWITT,  WILLIAM 

HUNTER-DUVAR,  JOHN  .  .  .  . 
HUXLEY,  THOMAS  HENRY. 


IMAGE,  SELWYN 

INGELOW,  JEAN 

"  INGOLDSBY,  THOMAS."  —  See  Richard 

Harris  Barham. 
INGRAM,  JOHN  KELLS 

JAMESON,  ANNA 

JAPP,  ALEXANDER  HAY 
JOHNSON,  E.  PAULINE 
JONES,  EBENEZER.  . . . 
JONES,  ERNEST  CHARLES 
JOYCE,  ROBERT  DWYE 


74 

73 

638 

241 

590 

324 


102 


KEBLE,  JOHN 
KELLY,  MARY  EVA. 
KEMBLE,  FRANCES 
KENDALL,  HENRY  (JtA~RENC\ 
KENDALL,  MAY-^ 
KENT,  CHARLES^ 

KENYON,  JOHN ^ 

KING,  HXRRIET  ELEANOR  HAMILTON. 
KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD.. 
KNOX,  ISA  CRAIG 


LAING,  ALEXANDER 

LAMPMAN,  ARCHIBALD 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE 

LANG,  ANDREW 

LANGHORNE,  CHARLES  HARTLEY 

LAYCOCK,  SAMUEL 

LEAR,  EDWARD 

LEE-HAMILTON,  EUGENE 

LEFROY,  EDWARD  CRACROFT 

LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD 

LEIGHTON,  ROBERT 

LEVY,  AMY 

LIDDELL,  CATHERINE  C 

LlGHTHALL,    WlLLIAM    DOUW.  —  See   W. 

D.  Schuyler-Lighthall. 

LINDSAY,  LADY 

LINTON,  WILLIAM  JAMES 

LITTLE,  LIZZIE  M 

LOCKER-LAMPSON,  FREDERICK 

LOGAN,  JOHN  E 

LOVER,  SAMUEL 

LOWE,       ROBERT     (VISCOUNT     SHER- 

BROOKE) 

LYALL,  SIR  ALFRED 

LYTE,  HENRY  FRANCIS 

LYTTON,  EDWARD,  LORD 

LYTTON,  ROBERT,  EARL  OF 

M'CRAE,  GEORGE  GORDON 

McGEE,  THOMAS  D' ARCY 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON  (!ORD 

MACAULAY) 

MACCARTHY,  DENIS  FLORENCE 

MACDONALD,  FREDERIKA  RICHARDSON. 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE 

MACKAIL,  JOHN  WILLIAM 

MACKAY,  CHARLES 


171 
105 

66 
624 
577 
2:30 

72 
388 
308 
595 
247 


495 
49 
110 
475 
504 
541 
593 
220 
579 
510 


336 
147 
575 
465 
643 
88 

616 
262 
173 
42 
380 

(i22 
103 

27 
100 
506 
163 
554 

87 


INDEX   OF   POETS 


743 


MACKAT,  ERIC 529 

MAGINN,  WILLIAM 54 

MAHONY,  FRANCIS 55 

MAIR,   CHARLES 641 

MANGAN,  JAMES  CLARENCE 91 

MARSTON,  JOHN  WESTLAND 452 

MARSTON,  PHILIP  BOURKE 442 

MARTIN,  ARTHUR  PATCHETT 631 

MARTINEAU,  HARRIET 125 

MARZIALS,  FRANK  T 493 

MARZIALS,  THEOPHILE 515 

MASSEY,  GERALD 165 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE 371 

"  MEREDITH,  OWEN."  —  See  Robert,  Earl 

of  Lytton. 

MERIVALE,  HERMAN  CHARLES 461 

MEYNELL,  ALICE 538 

MILLER,  THOMAS 64 

MILLER,  WILLIAM 86 

MILMAN,  HENRY  HART 170 

MILNES.     RICHARD     MONCKTON.  —  See 

Lord  Hoiighton. 

MITFORD,  JOHN 67 

MOIR,  DAVID  MACBETH 81 

MONKHOUSE,  COSMO 277 

MONSELL,  JOHN  SAMUEL  BEWLEY 177 

MONTGOMERY,  ELEANOR 632 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES 168 

MOODIE,  SUSANNA  STRICKLAND 633 

MORRIS,  SIR  LEWIS 256 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM 4C2 

MULHOLLAND,  ROSA 560 

MUNBY,  ARTHUR  JOSEPH 242 

MURRAY,  GEORGE 644 

MYERS,  ERNEST 297 

MYERS,  FREDERIC  WILLIAM  HENRY  . . .  291 

NADEN,  CONSTANCE  C.  W .-  562 

NEWMAN,  JOHN  HENRY 58 

NICHOL,  JOHN 254 

NICHOLS.  J.  B.  B 555 

NICOLL,  ROBERT 150 

NOEL,  RODEN 259 

NORTON,  CAROLINE  ELIZABETH  SARAH.  93 

O'LEARY,  ELLEN 328 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,  ARTHUR 440 

PALGRAVE,  FRANCIS  TURNER 239 

PARKER,  GILBERT 671 

PAKNELL,  FRANCES  ISABEL 537 

PATMORE,  COVENTRY 233 

PATON,  SIR  JOSEPH  NOEL 390 

PAYNE,  JOHN 434 

PEACOCK,  THOMAS  LOVE 47 

PFEIFFER,  EMILY 290 

POLLOCK,  SIR  FREDERICK 474 

POLLOCK,  WALTER  HERRIES 516 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH 48 

PROBYN,  MAY 542 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE 312 

PROCTER,  BRYAN  WALLER 19 

"PROUT,  FATHER."— See  Francis  Ma- 
hony. 


QUILLER-COUCH,  A.  T. 


586 


RADFORD,  DOLLIE 602 

RANDS,  WILLIAM  BRIGHTY 476 

RHYS,  ERNEST 580 

ROBERTS,  CHARLES  G.  D 649 

ROBERTS,  ELIZABETH  GOSTWYCKE 658 

ROBINSON,  A.  MARY  F.  —  See  Mrs.  Dar- 
mesteter. 

ROOD,  RENNELL 563 

ROPES,  ARTHUR  REED 568 

ROSCOE,  WILLIAM  CALDWELL 231 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA 376 

ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL 392 

ROSSLYN,  FRANCIS,  EARL  OF 256 

RUSKIN,  JOHN  156 

RUSSELL,  GEORGE  WILLIAM 605 

RUSSELL,  PERCY 615 

SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG,  GEORGE  FRANCIS  299 

SCHUYLER-LlGHTHALL,  WlLLIAM   DoUW  648 

SCOTT,  CLEMENT 334 

SCOTT,  DUNCAN  CAMPBELL 668 

SCOTT,  FREDERICK  GEORGE 656 

SCOTT,  WILLIAM  BELL 144 

"SERANUS." —  See  S.  Frances  Harrison. 

SHAIRP,  JOHN   CAMPBELL 219 

SHANLY,  CHARLES  DAWSON 634 

SHARP,  WILLIAM %  546 

SHERBROOKE,    VISCOUNT.  —  See    Robert 
Lowe. 

SIOERSON,  DORA 610 

SIMMONS,   BARTHOLOMEW 123 

SINNETT,  PERCY  F 628 

"SINGING  SHEPHERD,  THE-"  —  See  Elea- 
nor Montgomery. 

SKIPSEY,  JOSEPH 329 

SLADEN,  DOUGLAS  BROOKE  WHEELTON  551 

SMEDLEY,  MENELLA  BUTE 219 

SMITH,  A.  C 629 

SMITH,  ALEXANDER 166 

^MITH,  WALTER  C 236 

SOUTHESK,  EARL  OF 315 

"SPERANZA." — See  Lady  Wilde. 

STANLEY,  ARTHUR  PENRHYN 180 

STEPHEN,  JAMES  KENNETH 571 

STEPHENS,  JAMES  BRUNTON 621 

STERLING,  JOHN 61 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis 523 

STIRLING-MAXWELL,  LADY.  —  See  C.  E. 

S.  Norton. 
"SURFACEMAN."  —  See  Alex.  Anderson. 

SWAIN,  CHARLES 76 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES 417 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON 272 

SYMONS,  ARTHUR 601 

TAYLOR,  SIR  HENRY 25 

TAYLOR,  TOM 448 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  LORD 194 

TENNYSON,  CHARLES.— See  Charles  Ten- 
nyson Turner. 

TENNYSON,  FREDERICK 187 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  —  303 

THOM,  WILLIAM  82 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS 5fi9 

THOMSON,  JAMES 385 

THORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER 320 

TODHUNTER,  JOHN 332 


744 


INDEX   OF   POETS 


TOMSON,    GRAHAM   R. — See  Rosamund 

Marriott  Watson. 

TOWNSHEND,  CHAUNCY  HAHB 58 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHENEVIX  63 

TURNER,  CHARLES  TENNYSON 191 

TYNAN,  KATHARINE.  —  See  Katharine  T. 

Hinkson. 

TYRWHITT,  R.  ST.  JOHN 333 

VEITCH,  JOHN 323 

VELEY,  MARGARET 294 

WADDINGTON,  SAMUEL 297 

WADE,  THOMAS 126 

WALKER,  WILLIAM  SIDNEY 56 

WALLER,  JOHN  FRANCIS 95 

WARREN,  JOHN  LEICESTER.  —  See  Lord 
De  Tabley. 

WATSON,  ROSAMUND  MARRIOTT 572 

WATSON,  WILLIAM > . . . .  565 

WATTS,  THEODORE 267 

WAUGH,  EDWIN 109 

WEATHERLY,  FREDERIC  EDWARD 508 


WEBSTER,  AUGUSTA 462 

WEIR,  ARTHUR 674 

WELCH,  SARAH 630 

WELDON,  CHAHLES 153 

WELLS,  CHARLES  JEREMIAH 22 

WESTWOOD,   THOMAS 21H 

WETHERALD,  ETHELWYN 675 

WHITE,  GLEESON 526 

WHITEHEAD,  CHARLES 60 

WHITWORTH,  WILLIAM  HENRY 72 

WlLBERFORCE,  SAMUEL 175 

WILDE,    JANE    FRANCESCA    SPERANZA, 

LADY 104 

WILDE,  OSCAR 549 

WILLIAMS,  SARAH 335 

WILLS,  WILLIAM  GORMAN 455 

WOODS,  JAMES  CHAPMAN 301 

WOODS,  MARGARET  L 592 

WOOLNER,  THOMAS 391 

WORDSWORTH,  CHRISTOPHER 175 

WRATISLAW,  THEODORE 607 


YEATS,  WILLIAM  BUTLEB. 


603 


THE  CRITICAL  AND 
POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN 


HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 
BOSTON  :  4  PARK  STREET.     NEW  YORK  :  85  FIFTH  AVENUE 

Enjcrstfce  press, 


American  ^nt^olog^  1  787-1900, 


^ELECTIONS  illustrating  the  editor's  critical  review  of 
American  poetry  in  the  nineteenth  century.  With  brief 
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It  is  a  monumental  work,  and  even  to  be  included  in  it  will  be  to  escape  the  oblivion  which 
awaits  so  many  major  and  minor  poets.  —  RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD,  in  Mail  and  Express, 
New  York. 

"  An  American  Anthology  "  is  not  only  the  bequest  of  the  passing  century  to  future  gener- 
ations, but  the  most  interesting  and  inclusive  of  all  collections  of  American  verse.  —  WALLACE 
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Victorian  £nttyolog^  18374895. 

JELECTIONS  illustrating  the  editor's  critical  review  of 
British  poetry  in  the  reign  of  Victoria  ("  Victorian 
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discretion  and  delicacy.  —  The  Times,  London. 


jiSoto  f  trgt  Collected, 

i2mo,  gilt  top,  $1.50. 

)R.  STEDMAN'S  lyre  is  one  of  many  strings,  all  care- 
fully tuned,  whereon  at  will  he  can  make  sweet  music, 
stately  or  gay  as  befits  his  mood  ;  and  always  through 
his  singing  one  is  conscious  of  a  joyous  and  happy  heart  whence 
come  the  songs  —  a  heart  forever  young.  —  The  Book  Buyer, 
New  York. 


anD  <Clement0  of 

ITH  Frontispiece  after  Dlirer,  Topical  Analysis, 
and  Analytical  Index.  Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $1.50; 
half  calf,  $3.00  ;  half  levant,  $4.00. 

CONTENTS:  I.  Oracles  Old  and  New.  II.  What  is  Poetry?  III. 
Creation  and  Self-Expression.  IV.  Melancholia.  V.  Beauty.  VI. 
Truth.  VII.  Imagination.  VIII.  The  Faculty  Divine:  Passion, 
Insight,  Genius,  Faith.  Index. 

If  the  writer  has  not  said  the  last  word  on  "  the  faculty  divine,"  it  is 
doubtful  whether  any  better  word  remains.  And  it  is  all  said  so  rev- 
erently and  modestly  that  even  if  for  the  moment  you  do  not  quite 
agree  with  him,  his  spirit  seems  to  hint  that  he  is  probably  right  and 
you  are  wrong.  —  Public  Opinion,  New  York. 

Victorian 


REVISED  and  extended  by  a  supplementary  chapter 
to  the  fiftieth  year  of  the  period  under  review. 
Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.25  ;  half  calf,  $3.50. 

One  of  the  most  thorough,  workmanlike,  and  artistic  pieces  of  real 
critical  writing  that  we  have  in  English.  For  the  period  covered  by  it, 
it  is  the  most  comprehensive,  profound,  and  lucid  literary  exposition 
that  has  appeared  in  this  country  or  elsewhere.  —  Prof.  MOSES  COIT 
TYLER,  Cornell  University. 


of  ametica* 

>T.  COMPANION  volume  to  Victorian  Poets.     With 


VmV/^  fuu  Notes  in  margin,  and  careful  Analytical  In- 
dex. Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.25  ;  half  calf,  $3.50. 
CONTENTS  :  Early  and  Recent  Conditions  ;  Growth  of  the  American 
School ;  William  Cullen  Bryant ;  John  Greenleaf  Whittier ;  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson ;  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  ;  Edgar  Allan  Poe ; 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes ;  James  Russell  Lowell ;  Walt  Whitman ; 
Bayard  Taylor  ;  The  Outlook. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  any  other  living  American  man  of  letters 
could  have  written  a  volume  at  once  so  comprehensive,  so  appreciative, 
so  discriminating,  and  so  well  denned  in  respect  to  the  impressions 
which  it  makes.  —  The  Congregationalist,  Boston. 


anD  poetic 

NCLUDING  Poems,  Victorian  Poets,  Poets  of 
America,  Nature  and  Elements  of  Poetry.  4  vols. 
uniform,  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  in  box,  $7.50. 


edition, 

)ITH  portrait  and  illustrations.     Crown  8vo,  bound 
in    a   new  and  attractive  style,  $1.50;   full  gilt, 
$2.00  ;  half  calf,  $3.00  ;  levant  or  tree  calf,  $5.00. 
His  poetry  is  fresh  and  buoyant,  full  of  memories  of  great  deeds  and 
joyous  experiences,  and  seems  to  contain  the  elements  of  lasting  popu- 
larity. —  The  Academy,  London. 


and 

>HIS  volume  includes  the  admirable  poem  on  Haw- 
thorne, read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society 
of  Harvard,  and  earlier  poems.  i6mo,  $1.25. 

It  illustrates  his  devotion  to  an  ideal  which  prohibits  all  hasty  or 
careless  performance.  In  these  last  poems  we  find  the  proof  of  growth 
in  their  broader  grasp  of  thought  and  their  fuller  music.  —  BAYARD 
TAYLOR,  in  New  York  Tribune, 

jHater  Coronata* 

5ECITED  at  the  Bicentennial  Celebration  of  Yale 
University.  8vo,  $1.00,  net. 

Its  measure  is  one  of  particular  felicity.  It  is  the  artist's  and  scholar's 
trumpet  salute  to  the  things  of  the  soul  and  spirit  —  to  the  fountain 
from  which  great  deeds  come.  —  N.  Y.  Times  Saturday  Review. 


HOUGHTON/MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

BOSTON:  NEW   YORK 

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